Fulton and Portman
by BennyP
Summary: The comings and goings of the Bash Brothers, now as professional hockey players. Tentatively complete.
1. Prologue

This is a slight revision of my "Fulton and Portman" stories that were posted here a year earlier. 

One of the most interesting series of fan fictions I have ever read are probably grouped along with the fan fiction you are about to read. Most are good, and some are bad, but the ones dealing with the difficult yet honest and passionate romance between Fulton Reed and Dean Portman, the celebrated Bash Brothers, have touch my heart and my mind greatly. Many speculations have been vented out about such a possible relationship, and many have written ideal love stories that take advantage of this wonderful pairing.

It was because of these wonderful stories that I have decided to write one of my own. It is an attempt at a complete story of our enamored Brothers from their hopeful beginnings at the Junior Goodwill games, through their on-again-off-again relationship, to its, well, I haven't decided yet. The story will be based in later years, when the Bash Brothers are the "cash cows" of one of the NHL's most successful franchises, where Fulton and Portman achieve athletic success beyond their wildest dreams. Yet Fulton is fast approaching thirty, a dreadful time for a lonely, gay man, and realizes he still loves Portman a great deal. However, Portman's love for Fulton, however strong it is, does not help him commit to Fulton, as he has once again dated a girl and went so far as to announce their engagement in Fulton's presence. Through visions and memories, Fulton must fight his own personal insecurities and Portman's sexual indecisiveness, as he risks not only losing the only person he ever loved, but his best friend and fellow enforcer, not to mention their very careers. This is based entirely from the perspective of Fulton. It aims to be a mix of Fellini's "8 ½" and Kevin Smith's "Chasing Amy", just to give you an idea. These stories will be lengthy and not-so-much plot- driven. Instead, they will be examinations of the two characters.

I hope that you will find the stories intriguing and fun to read, as I will find them fun to write.

And so, without further ado, here are Fulton Reed and Dean Portman, the Bash Brothers.. 


	2. About a Girl

About A Girl 

I need an easy friend 

I do, with an ear to lend 

I do think you fit this shoe 

I do, won't you have a clue 

-Nirvana, "About A Girl" 

*** 

Fulton

Without Portman, I'd be spewing my lunch on the floor right now. I've done so many interviews on TV, but my nervousness never goes away. Just when I start to sweat, Portman gives me a pat and rub on my shoulder to calm me down. 

"Relax, bro." He has those cool, gleaming eyes and that firm but sure tone that said this will all be over in an hour. "It's not their show. It's ours!" 

I look at him and he smiles back. He cleans off the sweat from my forehead as one of the stage hands calls us out, and we come out wearing our oversized Minnesota Wild jerseys and sit down in front of Tom Arnold and a bunch of other guys. 

It's The Best Damn Sports Show Period. Portman and I watch the show at home, but they never talk about hockey, so I can tell Portman feels really special about this. As the show went on, I felt better and better. Then Arnold and the guys start popping out those jokes that we know are stupid, but we laugh at them anyway, and when they ask a question about our lives as enforcers, Portman and I just wing it and make up stuff as we go along. I guess it's cool to be with a bunch of other real guys talking about sports and girls. 

Not that I was into girls. 

So it annoyed me when one of the guys asked, "So Portman, how are the chicks treating you?" 

When Portman starts giggling to that, my laughter slows down. _Yeah, Portman, how is she treating you? I want to know, too. _ When he calms down, he starts. 

"Well, the fish aren't biting now!" We both laugh, then, "Actually, I'm getting married!" 

Portman laughed again, and the guys cheered him on, but my blush drained away and I turned to him, trying to keep a straight face, just as he continued with a big smile on his face. 

"In fact, I want to let everyone know, and break a few girls' hearts, that I, Dean Portman, am engaged." 

_No way! _

And then he goes on telling who she is, what she looks like, and how good of a kisser she is! I know he's been dating girls again, and I was okay with that, but Portman never made it _this_ far! But I forced my smile, pretending everything was okay and that I was happy for him. Portman turns to see me. When he does, his smile also becomes forced. Now I'm hurting him. I'm sorry that I did, but what can I say? I still love that bastard. 

Portman

So now we're on a plane heading back to St. Paul. I hate planes, especially at night. So does Fulton. They shake, and the shaking scares me. Fulton holds my hand because he knows we're two lame Ducks that make poor flyers. Practices start the day after, and I can't come home without Fulton. I move my hand over his and rub it. He squeezes it back. 

Fulton's spacing out again as he stares out of the window and blasts Soundgarden out of his Walkman earphones. I can tell by his watery eyes that he's holding back tears. My little surprise at the sports show hurt him badly. I had to break the ice. 

"Fulton." I speak over his earphones, but he can't hear me. I shake his hand as his eyes are still looking at the dark blue clouds outside. "Fulton!" He finally turns and takes off his earphones. 

"You're spacing out", I go. 

He's pissed. But I like it when he's pissed. He looks cute when he pouts his lips on his soft, round head like that. I took a big breath and ask softly, "Dude, what's up? 

"You could've told me before I made a complete ass of myself on TV." Fulton speaks downright ticked. 

"I wanted to make it a surprise, that's all." Some surprise, Dean. 

"And it was a helluva good one!" He read my mind. We knew each other so damn well. 

"I'm an idiot. I should've told you. It won't happen again. Okay, bro?" 

Fulton nods as some kids run down the plane's aisle with these posters of us in Minnesota Wild hockey gear, which says in big letters DEAN PORTMAN 21, FULTON REED 44, THE BASH BROTHERS. Then they show me their Sharpee. Fulton sees this and smiles back. Fulton and I are suckers for signing autographs for kids, so we smile and sign away. 

When they leave, Fulton goes, "I _will_ be your best man, right?" We both chuckle at that. That's Fulton for you: Always putting a funny spin on the situation. I love seeing Fulton smile. 

Fulton

At 9 PM, we finally get to St. Paul International, and when we go to pick up our bags, there she is, holding Portman's blood-red bandana in her hand and waiting patiently for her hot Latin lover. Portman never left his bandana behind. I know I never did. 

"Hey, baby." Portman says as she kisses Amber on her left cheek. His face hasn't been that lit since we left New York. 

"I missed you." Amber says in that ditzy smile of hers that I grew to hate. 

Then, she wraps the bandana over her eyes, grabs him by the arm and pulls him outside to her Beetle parked in the white zone. I grab my bags (and the bags from Portman she didn't want to take) and follow the two. 

"Where're you're taking me, Amb? You got me a surprise? What is it?" 

Ugh. 

"What about Fulton?" Portman remembers as he steps into the car. 

"Oh, he can come, too." Amber says as though she didn't care. I didn't like her, but I have to take the ride. The hell am I paying thirty bucks for a cab ride! I put our bags in the trunk and we're off. 

Amber Renwick was, can I say, his bitch? She was this model for some important fashion magazine, and, when you saw her, you didn't need to guess how she got to where she was. She was something that guys (except me) would kill their mothers just to not feel guilty about landing in bed with her, and when she didn't get her way, she would either put on this puppy face on or, like this one time at a party when Portman wasn't around, she would throw fits that would make Shannen Doherty blush. 

As Portman slips his hand onto her bare legs, Amber slaps it and the two giggle. I just stare out of the window and into my thoughts. 

Suddenly, I'm back at Eden Hall High with the rest of our fellow Ducks. I'm in Julie Gaffney's dorm room. She had this sleepover party, and we were playing truth or dare with her, Connie, our fellow Duck Tammy whom she invited, Guy, Portman, and me. Portman dared Julie into kissing Connie, because Portman was into hot lesbian action. And, man did he get it! Even Guy liked seeing two really cute girls getting it on! I smiled, but only because Dean smiled. 

But Julie was always the one for revenge. When it was her turn, she dared Portman to kiss me. Portman gave me the weirdest look. I didn't know what to do. I never kissed _anyone_ before. I thought maybe we could get away with it since Portman was dating this girl, so no one would seriously think that we're... into that sort of thing. If we kissed, I thought I would take it too far and he'd be grossed out with me. I didn't want to lose my best friend, my only friend, but I had to take the chance. So our heads slowly come close as we closed our eyes and pressed our lips together softly. 

And he didn't let go! 

My heart was racing like a Porsche and my dams of sweat were breaking. Oh, you only had to see the Bash Brothers kissing each other just to get a howl from everyone in the small dorm room. As I heard the howling from the other four, I quickly pulled away. 

When I opened my eyes, I saw Portman smiling back at me. Not bad for my first kiss, I guessed. 

Later that night, Portman and I went back to our dorm rooms. Portman closed the door softly and turned the volume of our stereo really low (very untypical of him). As we undressed for the night, I noticed Portman staring at me, but when I did, he turned away. When I got to just my undershirt and white boxers, he sat on my bed, wearing nothing but his boxers. Portman was ripped: Huge arms, big chest, and washboard abs. I was thinking, dreaming of how much I wanted to rest my head between those big pecs of his. Then I realized: I'm staring at his pecs! I turned away, sweating like crazy. 

"Bro, come and sit." 

I obeyed, and I sat next to him on my bed. After an awkward silence and some nervous laughter from the two of us, Portman broke it. 

"Oh man! That was some weird shit with Jules and Con tonight!" 

I laughed at it. It was pretty weird shit. 

"Just don't try to ask Jennifer for that. She'll pull your hair out!" I joked. 

Then he calms down and goes, "Hey, Fult, I'm curious. I hope it's okay if I asked." 

Oh no. He was going to ask if I was gay, wasn't he? I knew it! I had the biggest crush on my best friend since we first clicked at the Games two years earlier, and now it was showing. I should've cut him off earlier! Adrenaline was running through my body, and I saw my hand shaking a little. He continued. 

"I was wondering: That kiss we had? Well, Fult, I just want you to know I'll still be your best friend, but, uh,"- 

But just then, my shaking hand grabbed his left pec! 

_OH NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!_

He saw this, and our dorm room was filled with laughter, because I was so nervous. I took my hand off of him, got up, and went to the wall. He rolled over my bed as though he was being tickled to death. 

Then Portman got up and, as we were still laughing our guts out, he put my head against my back. We calmed down, and he turned me around, and I was shocked to see him staring at me with those gazing eyes and that beautiful smile. I couldn't help but to lock my eyes with his and smile back. Then he came close, and our lips were together again. 

Now it was a question of who'd back out first. 

He didn't. Neither did me. Our kiss just grew deeper and deeper. Then he slipped his arms under my shirt and around my chubby body, gently touching my back with his fingers. It felt so good, so I wrapped my arms around his. Now _that_ was a first kiss! 

When we finally broke off ten minutes later, Portman went to my bed and just lied there wearing only his boxers and his big smile. I turned off the light and joined him. We just slept together that night. No hardcore stuff; just holding and kissing him under the covers was good enough for me. Then he blurted out, 

"It's my first kiss, too." 

Portman

So Amber finally stops the car and gets out. I turn to hear Fulton snoring away. Still blinded by my own bandana, I reach my arms to him, and feel that he's hugging himself. He's probably dreaming about me. I should tell him that he looks like a baby when he does that. I shake him by his knee and say, "Fulton, we're here!" 

He wakes up. Amber opens both of our doors and pulls me out. Is Fulton following me, too? I hope so. This must be something big, probably her little gift for our engagement. The air suddenly turns warm as she finally takes off the blindfold, and I saw that we are in this Texas-themed restaurant with some shitty country music hee-hawing from the speakers. The place is full of people we mostly didn't know, holding wine glasses and beer bottles up in the air, shouting, "Hip-Hip-Hooray!" 

And I blurt out a big, happy "HEY!" I turn around and see Fulton totally bummed out, but I put my arm around him and move him down with me into the crowd. Everyone is congratulating Amber and me, blessing my marriage, shit like that. Fulton then wanders off as girls and guys in cowboy suits were dancing all over the place, taking orders in those fake accents. 

Everyone looks sharp tonight. Nice suits; clean ties; the whole bit. All of the team is here. So's that prick of our coach James Manning and our hot and lovely lady owner Ione Graham. 

Fulton

I can tell this was all her idea. One: If either I or she weren't there, Portman would smash the stereo with his bare hands (and he could). Two: No one from the Ducks is here. 

I guess it's understandable: Four of them are in the League, so they have to start practice soon. Adam Banks played for Colorado; Russ was with the L.A. Kings, and Charlie Conway, Anaheim. (A Duck playing for the Ducks. It's too weird.) Luis Mendoza made it in the Florida Panthers, so he's the only one not in our conference. I know Guy, the Halls, and Dwayne were doing some minor league stuff, and everyone else was just out of it. I also know that Guy, Connie, Averman, Goldberg, the Halls, and the Tammys are still living in Minneapolis, so if we ever had a party, they were automatically invited, and since this isn't our party, they're not here. 

So I walk around, torturing myself by seeing Portman and Amber holding hands in front of the big crowd of people we mostly didn't know. Just before I make it to the bar to get a Budweiser, I'm mobbed by (awh crap) reporters. They're asking me how it feels to see one of the Bash Brothers get engaged and when would I get married. I'm not in a happy mood tonight, and it's getting harder and harder to keep a straight face in front of them, but I have to play this stupid charade, only because I don't want to hurt Dean. I keep watching over him. 

I did want him to be happy. But he looks happy with her. 

After a beer or three, Portman's hand slaps on my shoulder, bringing with him that terrifying look on his face. He puts his arm around my shoulders and leads me to the bathroom. After making sure everyone was gone and all the stalls were cleared, he locked the door. 

"Dude, what's your problem?" He snaps. "Can't you at least be happy that I'm getting hitched?" 

I think about it, and I look down. He already knows the answer. 

"When did you ask her?" I start. 

"Just three days ago." 

"And you're marrying her after knowing her for just five months. We've known each other for, what, 13 or 15 years? That's half of our lives, Dean! And you're going to throw it all away for some girl who knows as much about you as those damn reporters!" I have to pipe down; these bathroom walls make good echoes. 

"At least I _know_ her!" What? 

"What the hell does that mean? You know me, too!" 

"Then tell me why you're really pissed about me marrying Amber!" 

I want to tell him, but I can't say I'm still in love with him. I'm not the one for sap crap. 

"Yeah, that's what I thought!" Portman snaps again, but quickly quiets down. "You know what annoys me? I gave you friendship when no one else did. I gave you happiness. I gave you half my life, and I loved you more than I loved myself. I opened my heart for you, but you never opened yours. There's a lot of stuff you never talk about that I want to know because I care for you and love you, but you're wrapped in this little world of yours and you shut me out so many times. I've tried, and tried, and tried to come into that world, but you won't let me." At this point, Dean's eyes water up. I never saw him like that before. "And you know what? I won't spend another minute of my life trying to get in." 

We both fall silent. Dean wipes his tears as our conversation turns to a guilt fest. 

"I'm sorry," I tell him through my breaking voice, squeezing his hands tightly, "I'm a jerk. I'm really happy you found someone, and if you love her, then I'm okay with it. I'll still be your Bash Brother and best friend no matter what. That's all I ask." 

Portman then pulls his hands away from mine, unlocks the door and says as though he didn't give a damn, "whatever", and leaves. I go into one of the stalls and the tears wouldn't stop. 

Portman

Amber gave Fulton and me rides back to our place. The night was long, and now I'm back in my pad, which is in the same ritzy apartment building as Fulton's. Amber's right next to me on the bed, with her hand across my chest. She's sleeping so quietly. Wish I could do the same. I just can't go to sleep and not think about what I did to Fulton today. But it was the truth. He knew the day would come when our Great Spring Romance would be over and that we'd move on with our lives. That's how I want to think of it. But he's right. You can't throw away 13 years just like that. 

Man, that arm of hers sure feels heavier now. 

Fulton

My apartment is such a mess right now. Bottles, trash, and hockey equipment are all over the place. It hasn't been very clean around here since Portman and I broke up. I'm on my bed, thinking about the fact that he's sleeping with her right now two floors up, even though I should be thinking about what he said in that bathroom tonight. Man, we've done so much together. We made it to the NHL together. We got high and drunk together. We even got arrested together! And it's all over. What went wrong? Whatever it was, could it be fixed? But after tossing myself on the bed for a couple of hours, my drunken ass finally goes to sleep. 

I think it was all the beers I drank earlier, or all that weed we smoked back at Eden Hall. We don't do that stuff anymore--we have jobs to keep--but I think it's catching up with me because, after a few minutes, I'm on this beach next to a big ocean. It's cloudy and the scene is all dark blue. From the beach I can see Portman, the Portman of My Dreams, shirtless and wearing these tight-ass jeans, coming out of the water and pulling this huge rope, which just went back into the water. As he did this, a woman's voice from out of scene whispered, 

_Show him everything...._


	3. Fulton of the Rivers

Fulton of the Rivers 

Now here I go again, I see the crystal visions 

I keep my visions to myself 

-Fleetwood Mac, "Dreams" 

*** 

Fulton

The great thing about being a Bash Brother is that, no matter how many problems we have at home, they stay at home. 

As we get ready for our first pre-season game against the Vancouver Canucks, Portman goes around the locker room, playing some Rob Zombie on the stereo, shaking whoever he meets by the shoulders, and screaming to the top of his lungs to mock our ever-so-beloved coach, "Guys, we got a Stanley Cup in our hands and some Canuck fucks want to take it away! What do you do? Are we gonna give it to them?" 

"NO!" 

"Fuck no! The only thing we'll give those bastards is the beating of their motherfuckin' lives! 'Cause the hell are we giving way to their sorry asses! You guys ready to beat those motherfuckers?" 

The whole locker room goes into this loud "YEAH!" 

"C'mon! Where're your balls!? You guys ready to _cream_ those motherfuckers!?" 

"YEAH!" 

He then goes to where McKittrick is, whose locker is right next to mine, and screams, "MickeyD, are you ready to cream 'em?" McKittrick says nothing and just shrugs his shoulders. He's the only one not saying anything. That's our McKittrick Abbot, Number 42, who at 24 is the youngest player on the roster. He always keeps it to himself and hardly talks with anyone, and I mean _anyone_, so anything that came out of his mouth came as a surprise. He started out as an enforcer because he was a fat guy, _really_ fat, but Coach Manning saw that the guy was damn fast, too, so he moved him up to a left wing. It's weird: He's fat but fast. Everyone else thinks of him as fast but fat. 

Then he comes to me, and we give this loud ass scream to each other and make a chest butt, when Coach Manning walks in like the old gunnery sergeant that he is, grabs Dean by the ear and yells into it that he should un-fuck himself. Dean gives this little salute, mockingly says, "Sir, yes, sir," and rolls his eyes as he walks back to his locker. The coach then does his own yelling, saying stuff that Portman already covered. Those two get on each other's nerves, and Portman enjoys it a lot. Manning can be an ass, but his ass-whipping got us two Stanley Cup titles! Wouldn't you like to thank the guy who put your name on the Cup _twice?_

As Portman goes back, he pats the back of our captain, Jonathan Bosco, Number 92, winner of the Calder, Masterson, and Lady Byng trophies, and one of the best centers in the league. Yeah, Banksie was great, but even he paled compared to Bosco. He's 33, with short blonde hair, about my height, and built just like Portman. On top of that, he just got married over the summer! He has that cool but serious look that's so typical of those football jocks that dominate the high school scene. He pats Portman on the back with a cool grin and keeps getting ready. 

All of the lockers are in numeric order, so Portman's is just a few lockers down. I love seeing him getting revved up by punching his bag that hangs on the locker door, jumping up and down, shouting, "I Am the Greatest" like he was getting ready for a boxing match and not a hockey game. Man, he's turning me on. I look down and, damn, my pecker is getting horned up! Better cover it up with my helmet before anyone notices. 

So we finally get out of the locker room and into the deafening cheers of "BASH! BASH! BASH!" that swarms the Xcel Energy Center. I swear, it's as if they shoved everyone in Minnesota into this one puny arena. Girls are holding up signs saying FULTON MARRY ME PLEASE as the guys are waving those State of Hockey flags that I loved seeing every time we play at home. Portman and I then give this big scream as I grab Portman's wrist and hold it high. It's all too weird to be the most dangerous pair of enforcers the NHL has ever seen. 

Portman

I see my baby girl Amber sitting right in front. I blow kisses to her while we sing the national anthem. She spots and catches them. Normally, all the girls would be throwing roses and even a few panties at both of the Bash Brothers, but now that I'm engaged, they're throwing them to the remaining Bash bachelor. Fulton just waves back to them. Poor Fulton, I wish he could try girls again, but girls never seem to work out for him. 

So the game begins with two of the stars of the show: Our center Bosco, and left wing MickeyD (the nickname we gave to Abbot), along with right wing Carl Weiland, and our two guys on defense, Jim Polanski and Miguel Soto. The game begins and for about 10 minutes, other than some penalty to the Canucks for hooking, nothing happens. 

But then, Coach Manning calls in both Polanski and Soto. It's show time! 

Fulton and I put our bandanas and helmets on, give a toast with our hockey sticks, and hit the ice. The fans go to a roar as we check any and every Canuck that came our way. For each check, a loud "BASH" goes around the arena. After a shitload of checks, Fulton gets the puck for good and, seeing the open hole, shot that little fucker in the goal. The whole place goes nuts! The four of us go to my bro and give him high fives, but I add a chest butt and we both scream to the fans again. 

We're back on the ice again when the second period begins. I get the puck, but one of the Canucks comes too close as he fights with his stick for the puck, wrapping his leg around mine. When I can't get out of the bind, I fall, but quickly get up and push the guy. The referee calls a penalty for misconduct and sends me to the box. I'm pissed, but I make the best of it as I start banging the glass, screaming and hollering to the fans and leading the cheer: "FULTON! FULTON! FULTON!" Everyone starts to repeat his name as I then climb inside the box like a monkey on speed, screaming my bro's name. How's that for support! The Canucks had a power play, so my Bash Brother needs the help. A minute into my penalty and, as Fulton again has the puck and goes past the box, another Canuck heads straight for him and, 

BAM! 

I could hear Fulton's helmet crack as he slides down the side of the glass. Not giving a damn what the referee would say, I get out of the box and go to Fulton's side, taking off his helmet. My bro's bleeding from the head and his eyes were shut! I slap his face around, trying to wake him up as the doctors take their time coming. 

"Bro, are you okay? Wake up! C'mon bro, wake up!" 

Fulton

After walking down some river, I come to this house in the middle of an open field. The house looks like it hasn't been painted for years and the termites got the best of it. Looks like someone hasn't been keeping up with the décor! There's this short tree that's easy to climb on one side of the house and a rusted Studebaker idling on the other. Under its open hood is this huge, bald guy wearing this overstretched wife-beater, fixing the engine. Next to him are a bunch of younger but still bulky looking guys wearing mechanic's jumpers. It looked all so familiar, but I couldn't pin my finger on it, so I come closer to the house to figure it out, when the big guy goes, 

"Boy?" 

I know that voice and stop moving. 

"BOY?" That's all Dad ever calls me. I try backing away, but then he spots me. 

"Boy, you better get into that house and get me and your brothers some Buds or I'll whip you with the switch!" 

Yep. I know where I am now. It was the old house outside Stillwater, next to the Saint Croix River. That's where I spent the first seven years of my life. That's where I listened and obeyed everything my dad said to me, because there was no other way. If only I knew how to swim! Then I would've made it across the river to Wisconsin, to salvation. 

I go back inside and I see my whored-out _step_-mother, pretending to make eggs. She's thin and wrinkly, but she's wearing these silly short shorts and this colorful rag or scarf or whatever which was holding her sagging black bra over her huge boobs. She tells me with that drawl of hers that the Buds are in the fridge. I take the cold bottles of Budweiser outside to him and my two underage _step_-brothers. After opening the bottles with their bare thumbs, Dad goes, "Boy, sing us a song." 

"But I don't know any songs." That's just to give me time to either remember or invent one. 

"Sing us a damn song, boy!" 

I muster up the courage and sing with this terrible, weak voice, "I'm a little teapot, short and stout"-- 

My _step_-brother James pokes my head with his bottle and shouts, "Don't give us that wimpy girly shit!" 

But I don't know what else to give them. I better come up with something, because my other _step_- brother Hike, is giving me the eye, getting ideas. Then, I remember this Kenny Rogers song called "Lucille" and start singing it. I'm a terrible singer and we all know it. Their kick is not from the song, but from me trying to sing it and embarrassing myself in front of them. When I'm done, they give these little claps. 

"Now get inside and help your momma." 

I walk back to the house, but not before saying to myself, "She's not my momma." My dad catches this and grabs me by the arm. 

"Say that again, boy?" Now I really pissed him off. 

I say it again, weaker than before, "Well, she's not." Fulton Reed, that wasn't the smartest thing a seven-year-old would say. 

He squeezes my arm even more. "Boy, you better show respect to your old lady!" 

Then, from out of nowhere, I blurt out what I thought was _the_ smartest think a seven-year-old could say, "And you better show her how to wear a bra! She could use a tip from you!" 

Now, all three of them are pissed. My dad pulls me from the ear and James and Hike take me by the arms and legs into the garage. He goes to the shelf and takes out this big, tin water bucket, which always reminded me why I couldn't just swim into Wisconsin.... 

Portman

Fulton lies on the bed in the first aid room, not moving an inch. I sit next to him, waiting for him to wake up. He's had concussions before, but this looked really bad. 

Finally, he starts fidgeting, turning his head to the sides and sweating. He whispered, "Dad, don't. Don't." This is totally freaking me out. I slap him again, and his eyes open towards mine. I smile back and hold his hand. One of the first aid guys takes a towel and pats it on Fulton's head to dry off the sweat. 

"You're gonna be fine, bro. Don't worry." 

"Dean." Fulton whispers dryly. 

"Hey, his name was Cramer, Reginald Cramer." That was the bastard who checked him. "Next time we meet with the boys from Vancouver, we both check his ass back!" 

Both of us chuckle at that as I take the towel and finish drying his sweat. I tell the first aid guys to leave for a minute. When they do, my head rests on Fulton's chest. I wanted to ask him what his dad was doing to him in that dream he had, but I can't. I guess if I knew, I'd get interested all over again. He looks back again with those sweet eyes of his and smiles as I reailze how much I miss that. Then he goes back to staring out in space. 

"Bro, did I ever tell you how much you mean to me? You're the only reason why I'm still alive, you know, and I owe you a lot." Fulton blurts out. Whoa, I wasn't expecting that. He hasn't told me that in a long time, and just hearing it from his soft but dry voice again after so many months made me feel mushy and gooey. Now I was confused; flattered and touched, yeah, but confused. 

"We're best friends, right? We're the Bash Brothers, you mean a lot to me, and you don't owe me shit." As we relax in the first aid room, I rub his chest slowly, just like old times. 

"But I owe you big time." Fulton says shakingly. 

"For what?" 

"For saving me." 


	4. Scenes from a Gym

Scenes From A Gym 

Take your time, hurry up 

Choice is yours, don't be late 

Take a rest as a friend, as an old memoria. 

-Nirvana, "Come As You Are" 

*** 

Fulton

Man, I'm having trouble with this today. I used to bench press 250 easily, but now it's really hard and I don't know why. I'm probably not totally awake yet, especially after that beer binge I had for myself last night. 

"Bro, help me here." I go, and Dean pulls the barbell up. We're buff guys, so Portman and I work out 

every morning at this nearby gym before we go to practice. I have to admit there are a lot of buff guys there, with their big arms and huge pecs and whatever, but my eye never really pays much attention to them, because they were totally out of reach and because Portman's the buffest of them all... at least in my book! Plus, his package really bulges out of those sweatpants of his, so that's always a treat. I'm wearing these extra tight sweats to see if I can get his attention on mine, too. 

Then, as we work out, our scrawny agent Mr. Kemp walks through the chiseled men of the gym with that troubled look in his eyes to talk to the two of us. We sit down on one of the benches and he looks away from me, speaking in his funny New York accent. 

"They want to put you into free agency." 

Instantly, we wake up and turn our heads toward him in total shock. "What?" Portman yelps with disgust. 

"Ms. Graham has been touting around the idea between some of the owners, and you know, I think it'll be good for you. Some are already offering some really good things, like, you know, money. There's no sum of it as of yet, but now that everyone knows, it won't take very long to see a few trading scenarios, and all of them look very positive." 

Then I go, "What about Portman?" 

He takes off his glasses to clean them off. "Well, I asked Miss Graham that and she thinks that he should stay and you need a change of scenery." 

"She wants to split the Bash Brothers up!?" Now Portman was really pissed. "I guess she can get a lot of money trading a Bash Brother." 

"Well, our franchise isn't doing so well with attendance down and licensing deals not doing, well, uhm, well." 

"What do you mean? We sell out our games, don't we?" Portman raises his voice in anger, but I motion to him that a bunch of other gym guys were paying attention, so he quickly calms down. 

"Don't be angry with me!" Mr. Kemp defends himself, "We haven't been selling out at all, and little Miss Graham thinks it's because of your lagging performances. Have you read the papers lately? There's talk about the fall of the Bash Brothers now. Ms. Graham is telling me to get your acts together or else, your bashing days will come to an end!" 

"And split me and Portman up?" For me, Hockey and Portman were the only things that make me happy and gives me a reason to wake up every morning. Portman betrayed me with that girl of his, and now hockey, too? Finally, I go "Mr. Kemp, didn't you promise to Portman and me when we chose you as our agent that nothing would separate the Bash Brothers and that we put all our faith in you to keep us together? That was because without each other, we're nothing! Nobody wants a has-been half-of-a-Bash-Brother and you know it, much less one with a lagging performance." 

I looked down, moping at the fact that I didn't know anything more to say. 

"Are you okay?" Mr. Kemp noticed, and he's really good at that. "You look depressed. What's up?" 

I didn't want to say. I could tell that Portman was curious, too. Once he realized that he wouldn't get an answer, Mr. Kemp goes, 

"If Portman asked you that, would you tell him?" 

Weakly, I go, "I guess." 

"You _guess_? You've known Portman for half your life and you _guess_ you'd tell him? I need to know what is going on in that head of yours or else Little Miss Graham will crack it open with a hammer! Maybe you should go to a psychiatrist." 

"I don't want to go to one!" I grunt stubbornly as Portman nods in agreement. 

Then he stops and the silence gives way to the clinking of gym equipment. 

Mr. Kemp turns to Portman and says, "Have you talked to him?" 

Portman shakes his head. Now I know I'm embarrassing him in front of all these people. Yeah, I had problems communicating with people, even with my best friend. I hated the thought of having some doctor screwing with my mind even more than it already is. I wanted to say something to Mr. Kemp so that he can go home feeling sure that whatever it was that was going in my head would be fixed before the next game. 

"I...." I didn't want to make this up. Mr. Kemp cared a lot for his guys. Just then, Portman puts his warm arm around me and massages my shoulder, asking me softly, "C'mon, Fulton, whatever it is, you gotta tell him." 

"I don't know." I did know, and so did Portman, but the answer would make Mr. Kemp nuts, so I tell him weakly, "I guess I'm just scared that my best friend is moving on with his life and I'm not. I'm almost 30. I'm old and no one is going to want a dumb goon who's only good at hockey and nothing else." 

"C'mon, bro, don't say that!" Portman gives me this big hug that says everything will be okay. But then he goes, "Fulton, you will always be my best bud no matter what. You're not old, you're not dumb, and you're good at a lot of other things than hockey. You have a big heart, and you will find that special someone who wants you." 

"What are you talking about?" Mr. Kemp interrupts, "Everyone will want you! You know the waiting list for girls wanting to marry Fulton Reed? You couldn't put it on toilet paper! 

"And when hockey's done with me, then what? Live off my oil wells in Texas?" I turn to him with that serious stare of mine. 

Mr. Kemp scratches the back of his neck and goes, "Well, uh, you like cocks, don't you?" 

What? Now Portman and I were even more awake than before! 

"Yeah, you two are into cocks. Don't think I don't know about what you guys do in the alleyways of Minneapolis!" 

Portman and I look at each other! Oh no, how did he know!? Sweat is running down our foreheads, and it's not because of the work-out! This can't be happening! 

Mr. Kemp continues, "Word has it, Fulton, that you're really good in picking winning roosters at the cockfights. Maybe you should go to bookkeeping. It's not my cup of tea, but there you go." 

Portman and I were relieved. I didn't like the fact that Mr. Kemp knows about the cockfights as well as my no-longer-secret successes at picking the winners beforehand, but it was much better than him knowing what really happened in the alleyways of Minneapolis! The whole gym was filled with our laughter. The laughter caught on to Mr. Kemp and he started laughing, too, saying, "See, doesn't that feel great? It's too bad you two couldn't tell me yourselves." 

Finally, after calming ourselves down, Mr. Kemp tells the two of us, "I don't know what's up with you two, but talk to each other like best friends should! I'm not Western Union, you know; I won't do the talking for you!" 

Portman pats me on the back and tells Mr. Kemp, "I'll put that on my list of things-to-do!" 

With that, Mr. Kemp pats both of us on our backs and leaves, but not before saying, "I'll see if I can talk Graham out of the idea, but please get better, 'cause if you don't, you're not helping me, okay?" 

We both give this funny "Yes, sir!" salute, and he leaves the gym. 

Portman

The shower rooms are always a great place to cool down after a long workout. Actually, when no one was around, Fulton and I would share the same shower head and make sweet love, making slurping sounds while we kissed! Now it's just us two again, but there's so much tension right now. We get completely naked and turn on the shower heads to feel the hot water glistening off our bodies. This time, when Fulton goes to one shower head, I go to another one, and Fulton already looks down in disappointment. Then, Fulton speaks with a soft and shaky voice. 

"Dean Portman, you don't know how important you are for me. Every time you put your chest against mine, our hearts matched pace. Every time you touched me, you touch a piece of me that even I never knew existed. Every time you clothed me with your kisses of silk running up and down my body, you were shielding me with an armor that made me safe. When we were together, we went to a fantasy world, where everything was safety, passion, and beauty, and there was nothing that could come in and take that away. I miss that place, Dean. When you offered me your bed because I had none, I took it. When my coaches put me down because I didn't know what I was doing, you helped me out, and when I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs but I was too scared, all you had to do was look at my eyes, take my hand into the air, and scream like crazy. You saved me so many times and made me feel good about myself. I owe you for so much, I don't even know how I will ever repay you, but I beg you: Please take me to that special place again, because I'm so afraid of what's going to happen and I want to feel safe again, because I will never stop loving you." 

I didn't know what to say. He puts his hand against my chest and over my racing heart. 

"You're scared, too." 

But I couldn't say yes. I wanted to, but I couldn't. 

"Fulton, don't make this harder than it should be." 

"Dean, I want to get back together." Fulton heads towards me and says, "Your fight is my fight, your fear is my fear, and your dreams are mine, and we will never have to be just Fulton or Portman, but us. I want to save us." 

It was that us that struck a chord in my memory. I wanted to save us, too, and I knew where to start. 

"What does your dad do to you with that bucket?" 

And Fulton's face turns pale and white. 

"Please don't bring that up, bro." Fulton is panicking and he walks away from the shower head, but I catch up and hold his arms with mine. 

I tell him, "You know a lot about me, but I know next to nothing about you except through those dreams of yours about your dad and some bucket, and I don't have a clue what that means!" 

"They're just dreams!" Fulton's getting really defensive now. 

"The hell they are! When we sleep together, I wake up in the middle of the night to hear you mumble about your dad and that bucket in your dreams and how you don't want your dad doing something to you with it!" 

"It's none of your business!" 

"They're splitting us up, so it is my business! They'll trade you off because you're not doing okay, and you're not doing okay because of these dreams of yours!" 

"I'm not doing okay because I love you but you love some whore who thinks of you as a trophy!" 

For that, I give Fulton a hard slap on his face. Fulton falls to the tile floor and looks confused as to whether he should fight or stay down. Then, I think, oh shit, did I do that? I can't believe I just did that. Stupid, stupid Dean! I get so worked up sometimes, and now I hurt my friend even more, the guy I think I still had feelings for. My anger immediately turns to sorrow and I hug him again. Then, I do something I thought was completely stupid in my situation. 

I crouch down and kiss him on the cheek. I hold him in my arms and he relaxes his wet scalp on my shoulders. We hold our wet bodies tightly, closely. 

"I'm sorry, bro. I didn't mean to say that." Fulton goes. 

"I'm sorry, too." I really was. 

Then, after just sitting on the floor for a while doing nothing other than calming ourselves down, he looks to me in those beautiful, soft eyes of his and whispers, "What do you think you'll get if I showed you everything?" 

"I don't know, maybe nothing at all! But I need to know. I want your fight to be my fight now, your fear to be mine, and your dreams to be mine. If it's something bad, my hand will grip yours to the tightest, and I'll never let go." 

Then he raises his head and goes, "If I showed you, will that do it? Will we get back together?" 

I wasn't sure of an answer, but to make him happy, I said "Maybe." I know Fulton like the back of my hand. He may look like a tough guy on the ice, but he can be such a softie. As we got up again, I ask, "When do you want to start?" 

"I guess when you want to." Fulton whispers. 

"We'll go today. It's our free day, so we can visit all of your old places." 

"But don't you have plans with Amber, hunting for dresses?" 

"I'll cancel." I said it with a deadpan assurance that he has wanted to see in me for a long time. The hug we gave to each other under the showering water would've broken our bones. That's how much I still cared for him. The important thing is that now I had something to work with. Finally, after years and years and years of guessing, I'm going to see what he sees. His fantasies will become mine. He'll show me everything. 


	5. Route 36

Route 36 

Seems that we're leaving town & family 

Jump in the van and bring the high wire 

Tapping into the asphalt vein 

Can't see the ground from where we're standing 

-Dealership, "Perfectly Happy" 

*** 

Fulton

I remember the first time Portman and I heard our first Nirvana song. It was at this mall in Chicago, I think the October or November after the Junior Goodwill games happened, remember that? I was staying over at Portman's place for a few days, not telling him why other than the fact that I just wanted to visit my brother-on-ice. Anyway, we walked into this music store and there was this big commotion because of this album that just came out. We walked through the crowd and we saw this CD called _Unplugged From New York_ from this band we never heard about. We asked who were these guys and _everyone_ in the store gave us this really mean stare back, saying stuff like "They're the best rock band ever" and "Show some respect" and a bunch of other shit. Just so that we wouldn't embarrass ourselves any more, Portman and I scrimped up all the money that we had and bought the CD. 

We went back to Dean's home and, curious, we played it on his own boombox. What we heard was magical. It's as though this guy was saying thing that Dean and I have always wanted to say but never could. Actually, I didn't think of it like that at first, but it was so cool, we decided to buy another one of these guys' albums, expecting more of that soft, calming stuff. When two days of playing the same CD over and over again wasn't enough, we got _Nevermind_, and we were so humbled. For both of us, this was the really hard, painful, sad shit that hit home. 

I guess Portman and I have been Nirvana fans ever since. Kurt Cobain, I think, is a great singer with this loud and crying voice that can bring down the walls of Jericho, as Portman would sometimes tell me. We only have, I think, their first three albums, which sucks, because we're all forever stuck with them. I even give these annoying rants to Dean about why Cobain had to blow his head off so soon and send us over to the boy- bands and all this 'my-daddy-left-me-SO-I-HATE-YOU' shit like Korn and Limp Bizkit. So having your Hummer filled with music by Nirvana really gets us pumped up, especially when driving down Route 36 to Stillwater. It's not very far from Minneapolis, but I wish it was. At least, taking a road trip is always fun when you have Portman sitting right next to you, singing along with Cobain's wailings as he drums on the dashboard like the crazy, testosterone-filled hockey enforcer that he is. 

Then I stop to this flower place to get some fresh dozen of roses. Thinking it really was for him, he goes "Awh! For me?" 

"No, they're for my mom." 

"Whoa, we're going to visit your mom? Cool!" 

And he becomes even more excited as we go down Route 36. I've met his parents before, but he never met mine, so for him this was a real treat. I could tell by how he's now suddenly singing _and_ dancing right on his seat. 

As I drive down the road, I start to get, how do I say, _impure thoughts_. That's what happens when I drive my Hummer, because whenever I get the stick to switch gears, I just want to move my hand over to his thigh and squeeze it. But I have to fight it. He's not yours anymore! Fight it, Fulton, fight it! But I want to touch him so badly! 

Finally, I can't help it anymore and, as I switch gears again, I make my move and hope he doesn't (_does?_) notice. Just as I get really close, a voice comes from the back seat. 

"Boy, don't you dare!" 

What was that? I immediately back my arm away from Portman and look at him, who is still singing and banging like nothing happened. It wasn't from him. I look at the rear- view mirror and I see him with this steady look of anger. 

"You stupid pansy!" Dad goes. "You just wait until we get home and let me give it to you. Got that boy?" 

The sweat quickly comes through my forehead as he dispenses with the insults. "What? I don't give a damn if you bring a friend along. Hell, invite him over and let him watch you pull your pants down to see your red ass! That way, he won't come back to our house and queer it up! You got that!?" 

What if he means it? If Portman sees it, will he leave for good? 

"I don't want him in my house, you got that?" 

"Shut up!" 

And Portman stops singing and turns to me confusedly. Oh shit, did I say that out loud? Portman looks around the car with a little shock and says, "Okay, bro, I'm sorry." 

"No, not you." 

"Then who?" 

"No one. I guess I was just thinking out loud. I'm sorry. Please don't stop singing. It's okay." 

But he didn't go back to singing. Instead, he asks, "What were you thinking about?" 

Annoyed, I say, "What is this, the National Enquirer? It's nothing." 

"Dude, you said 'Shut up' to someone. Are you okay?" Now he probably thinks I'm a lunatic. Why don't I get a straightjacket while we're at it? 

"It's nothing, Dean. I swear." 

Then, he moves _his_ hand over _my_ thigh and rubs it. "You're thinking about something. What is it? You can trust me, bro, just as I always trust you." 

I didn't budge and I keep driving, but my dad's still there sitting at the back seat, now angrier than before. 

"Well, boy, are you gonna tell him or not?" 

Then Portman, who's totally oblivious to what's going on in my head, goes, "What? Is someone following us?" He raises his hand off my thigh and turns around to see no one else on the road and, I hope, no one in the back seat. 

"No, I just was thinking too loud." I said. 

Then, Portman moves his hand back on my thigh. "Man, what's up?" 

"Nothing!" 

"The hell it's nothing! What are you thinking about?" 

I take another glance in the rear-view, and Dad's gone. The relief just flushed through my body. I just continue driving. 

"Fulton, are you ignoring me?" 

Portman

After traveling through back roads for what felt like hours, Fulton stops his Hummer in front of a fence and gate that was completely covered with dead vines. I get out and give myself a good stretch as I gander at the place. Fulton goes to the gate and shows me that there's a rusted lock over it. Fulton and I get back in the Hummer. He turns the car on and with full force plows through the gate. The muddy dirt road is barely visible with the grass having grown on it. At the end of it, there's this huge but partly burnt house, which looks like something out of those World War II movies. The whole house is surrounded by dried-up plants, auto parts, and trash that hasn't been picked up for years. A huge tree grows next to the house, and a rusted truck from the old days could be seen next to it. Fulton stops the car and we get off to take a look from near the Hummer. 

"Man, this place is a dump." Okay, my apartment wasn't exactly any better, but this was bad. 

"This was where I lived when I was a kid, before I moved to Minneapolis." Fulton goes and sighs through his voice. "I know it's not much, but it's home, I guess. My dad tried to sell it when we moved away." 

"Where did he place the ad, the obituaries?" 

Fulton liked that one, and we both smirked at it. "I guess it needs a little fixing. I could call a contractor." 

"Forget the contractor; call a mortician. This is a mess." 

Fulton then starts walking through the old, oiled-up car parts that nested to one side of the house. 

"Hey, Fult, you sure whoever owns this hell hole won't mind us trespassing?" Wait, since when am I worried about getting in trouble? 

"No, 'cause, technically, I own this hell hole." 

"It's yours?" I follow him through the junk and ask, "Well, then, why don't you do anything about it? This is some fine ass property you have, bro." 

Fulton doesn't say anything and he makes it to the back door. I catch up to him, knowing he won't give me an answer to that. Fulton takes a crowbar from nearby and pries the door open. The door opened to this small, mildewed kitchen with all of these really old appliances. Cobwebs grow on every corner here, probably because it's so damn cold outside. Fulton opens the refrigerator and shows me two bottles of Buds. He takes them out, and immediately I could tell that they were there for a good few years. 

"Man, do you think we'll find a wine bottle here, too?" I joked, but Fulton just closes the fridge and walked out of the kitchen into the living room, which is mostly burnt at the other side. An old TV, a broom stick, a plain lounge chair, and a few '70s knick-knacks dot the room. I also note that there's this pressing crack in the ceiling right above the chair, but Fulton doesn't answer. 

Then, after I steal, uh, procure some old photos from a nearby box, Fulton and I go up these creaking stairs and into this one small, pink room, which is right over the living room. It has a plain twin bed with no sheets, something totally useless for big enforcers like us to sleep on, a single poster of Heart on one side, and this long, thin piece of wood which lied against a set of wooden drawers. There are no toys, no books, no nothing. Fulton sits down on the bed and, noticing that he did it in a weirdly natural way, I could safely assume that this was his room. 

He was spacing out again, this time by staring out of the small window. I sit right next to him to snatch the view of the river from the room. With all of this country quiet and us alone in this big old house, I couldn't resist being close and intimate with him. Then as I embrace my Bash Brother with my arm, Fulton speaks to me. 

"My stepbrothers would always beat me up because I always looked too girly for them. When I could, I ran to my bedroom, but they always locked me in, just for the hell of it, sometimes for hours without letting me go down to eat. Sometimes, when I went to sleep, I dreamed some knight in shining armor would come across the river with his horse, slash his way through the house, take me in his arms from this room and make our escape across the river to Wisconsin. For me, crossing that river to Wisconsin was salvation." 

To break the dull and sad mood, I go, "Dude, we can drive there now. We go there all the time!" 

Fulton isn't totally impressed as he answers, "Like I could drive then, much less drive across a river." 

To that, I say, "A Fulton among the Reeds." Fulton nods mindlessly. 

But as I finish saying that, I remember something that I kinda didn't want to remember. 

"You know who else was among the reeds, dude?" 

Fulton turns to me, not having a clue of what I just asked, and shakes his head. 

"Moses!" 

"Who?" 

"You don't know who Moses is?" 

He shakes his head again. Oh, this is a surprise. 

"He's from the Bible. Check it out: In the old days of Egypt, there was this mean ass pharaoh who was killing off all the Hebrew babies because there were too many of them. Then, there was this one woman who had a baby herself and she didn't want the Egyptians to kill him, so she put him into this basket and let it float on the Nile River to protect him. You don't know your Bible stories, bro?" 

He shakes his head yet again, but at least he's listening. 

"Anyway, she put the baby in the basket to hide it _among the reeds_. Later, this Egyptian princess was taking a bath in the Nile when she saw this basket _among the reeds_. She opens it and finds this cute little baby boy. You know what she did? She took him like if he was her own son, and even asked the Hebrew mom to help her out." 

Then Fulton gives this 'Oh, I get it' look in his face. But then he asks, "Well, what's so special about what happened to a baby? It's nice that the princess saved him, I guess." 

"Well, that baby was Moses. You never heard the story of Moses?" Fulton shakes his head again, and I throw to him a few events like the burning bush, the sticks-turning-into- snakes thing, the ten plagues, and he's tripping out at the stuff I tell him. Then I come to the part about the Red Sea. When I tell him about how God parted it (and going into great detail what "parting" means), how the Hebrews and Moses walked across the sea on dry land, and how the pharaoh and his henchmen tried to walk across it, too, only to have the water implode on them and have them drown, Fulton blows himself over because he's totally amazed. 

Then I pull out some of those photos I snatched and we both look through them. Fulton points out who's who in every picture. Whoa, _that's_ his stepmom? Man, I've seen some ugly ass chicks back in the slut houses in Chicago, but this gal takes the cake! 

After a while of gawking at all of these not-so-Kodak moments, (the pictures are on Fuji paper) we come to this picture of this beautiful woman in her 30s holding this tiny baby. Her soft, baby-like face looks just like Fulton's. I ask, "Fulton, is that your mom, your real mom? And that little booger must be you!" 

Fulton nods. 

"Well, you said we were going to meet her. Was this what you had in mind?" 

Fulton then takes me by the hand, downstairs, and back to the Hummer, taking out those roses he bought earlier. 

Fulton

Then, with the flowers I take Portman to this spot next to the old tree, and there it was: The little tombstone that read my mom's name. 

When Portman sees this, he clutches my hand tightly as I put down the flowers. 

"I miss you, Mom." I go, "I know I don't visit you much, but I'll try to do better." I miss her so much. I hardly knew her because she died when I was like three years old, but the one thing I remember about her was that soft touch of her hands on my skin. 

Just like how Dean did it. 

"Anyway, mom, this is my best friend. His name is Dean Portman, and both of us play hockey now. We're the Bash Brothers, mom. I wish you could be proud of me." 

It's funny. Why do I think she'll answer me? 


	6. Chotto Homo

Chotto Homo 

Even if you have 

Even if you need 

I don't mean to stare 

We don't have to breed 

-Nirvana, "Breed" 

*** 

Fulton

I think Dean really likes this place. He's been walking around the whole property the entire afternoon. We haven't even left for lunch. Trying to respect Dean's wish not to do any moves on him in such a lonely place, I just keep to myself in my old room, holding that long stick that gave me so much happiness when I was a kid. I remember the days when my only source of happiness was crushing beer cans and using them as pucks, and learning my slap shot by propping up this old trunk and using it as my goal. My dad wanted me to be a football player, just like him, but hockey was my secret passion, just like guys are my secret passion. 

I don't think Dean is ready to meet my dad just yet. 

So I went downstairs with the stick, sift through the trash for some cans, and search the exteriors for that old trunk. From the front of the house, I can spot Dean Portman relaxing over this tree trunk which hanged over the river. I should tell him to get off, since it's been raining recently and the river was flowing pretty fast, but the last thing Portman wants is another guy giving him orders. Now it's sunset, and the orange sun lights up the dead autumn field. 

As I keep looking for that trunk, I suddenly hear a big splash. I turn and see that the tree trunk broke off. 

"Dean?" I run down the river and see Dean trying to swim upstream and to the side with the tree trunk, but the current's way too strong. 

"Bro!" I run down the river with my stick, passing him, and extend my stick towards where he'd be coming. But then, the tree trunk snags with some wooden piles, stopping Dean from speeding off downriver. I go over to him and ask him to grab my stick so that he can pull himself out of there. He reaches over to the stick as he uses the lodged tree trunk to get himself over the water. 

"Fulton, come closer!" Dean shouts at me. 

"I can't. The current will take me, too!" 

It was then that the tree trunk splits in two and Dean sinks and falls into the whims of the current, only to have his feet snagged by another pile. Now his upper body is completely immersed in the river. No, this can't be happening! 

I go to the tree and climb up as carefully and as quickly as I can, reaching his leg and grabbing it. I slowly pull down from the tree, pulling Dean's lifeless body with me. Once I get to the shore, I do some CPR numerous times, pressing against his chest and breathing into his mouth, only to get no response. I try and try again, with the tears and the sweat now covering my face, pleading and screaming for him to come back. After what seemed like an eternity, he finally chokes out some water, opens his eyes, and just stares into the sky. I carry him in my arms back to the house and into the living room. 

Seeing that he's too weak to do it himself, I take off all of his clothes, get a blanket from upstairs, and dry him up with it. With some wood that was lying around, I start a fire at the fireplace and prop Dean up against it to keep him warm, with his clothes sitting next to him to dry up. What he needs right now was warmth, and so I took off my heavy coat and put it on him, letting him recuperate for a while as I hug him tightly in my arms and kiss him lightly in the neck, realizing that I was this close to losing him. 

After a while of just staring idly at the fire, Dean turns to see me and I turn to see him. Our eyes were locking again, just like old times. A smile of gratitude flushed through his face. This was it. It was now or never. Our lips started inching towards one another, when the cell phone rings from his leather jacket. Both of us reach over to grab it. When we do, I clench his hand and rub it a little, but Dean just slowly, almost reluctantly, pulls away with the phone. Portman answers weakly and exhaustedly as he musters the courage to speak. 

"Hey baby, what's up?" It was Amber. Dammit! I just lie next to him, shaking my head in total disbelief, now that our moment has been so rudely interrupted. Portman just talks to her, "How was the shopping?... I'm so sorry, babe, but it was pretty important.... Oh, c'mon, it's not like that. Fulton needed my help." Then, Portman became quieter. "Baby, I'm sorry I couldn't go, but I told you something came up with Fulton's family, and I had to go.... Amber, we can go shopping for dresses later; we're not in a rush or anything, right? You said so yourself.... No, Fulton's my friend, okay, and we do things together all the time, but I'll come with you next time, definitely. I promise." 

Yeah, I can tell Portman's having a tough time with this call. I get up and go to where Portman is, embracing him at the waist and kissing his neck softly as Portman whispers away from the phone, "Dude, no," and heading back to Amber's conversation. "Sweetie, I'll make it up to you. We'll go out to dinner, on me. --Dude, no!-- Where? Anywhere you want to go. --Fulton," he chuckles, "stop it!-- Who's with me? Fulton." He finally pushes me away. "He's just screwing with me." At that, I gave this big guffaw and backed away from him. "Does he have a date? Let me ask." He turns to me. "Bro, I'm going to dinner. Can you get a date?" 

And now I slowed my laughter down. "No." 

As I embraced Dean once more, I couldn't help but hope that this moment would never end. But who was I to hope? 

Portman

I really have to stop her from choosing the restaurants. Tonight, before Fulton and I go off to Calgary and San Jose, Amber and the two of us are at the Nippon Edo Restaurant, which is this fancy Japanese place that's supposed to be super-trendy with the Twin Cities socialites. I absolutely _hate_ these sort of places, mainly because it's way too uptight and stuffy for my unrefined tastes. Plus, the food's usually lousy and the servings are small, not apt for two buff enforcers. 

Amber and I had our little chit-chat, about what dresses she tried on, what her friends thought of them, what she had for lunch, what she fed the cat, you know, chick stuff. I just nodded my head as she went on and on and on and on. Across the table sits poor Fulton, who now has to put up with her chatting and the fact that his worst enemy is now kissing me in the cheek. 

I should feel grateful that he saved my life, but I didn't even thank him. We just left the house in a rush, knowing that I had to see her. I shouldn't be messing him up like this. Man, what a dilemma. 

Fulton

And just in the nick of time, this Asian waitress shows up. "Kon ban wa!" As she hands me a menu, her eyes light up and her grin widens to this unhumanly size. "Reed-san?" Uh-oh, she recognized me? 

With that stupid confusion that I can't shake off, I go "Huh?" 

"Are you Bash Brother?" 

"Oh. Yeah." 

"Oh wow! I am biggest fan! I am happy to serve you tonight!" She puts down the napkin full of forks and spoons in front of me. Right then, she tells me all the specials and all the desserts that they had for me tonight. Then she bows to me and leaves, when suddenly Portman calls her and asks to give him and Amber their napkins full of forks and spoons as well. 

So I unfold my napkin to see that there's this name, Anita, and a phone number, most likely our waitress. Just then, _another_ waitress came over. This one was your average blonde white girl, really high strung, and has this cracking voice. "Mr. Reed? I'm so happy to serve you tonight! Oh my god!" 

"Uhm, actually, I'm already being served by the Asian waitress over there." 

"What!? This is my section! I'll fix this up. Anyway, I will be serving you tonight. That is, I should be serving you tonight. Let me take those." She takes our menus and gives us hers. Like Anita, she gives me a run-through of the specials and desserts and hands me another napkin full of forks and spoons. Unlike Anita, she didn't even have the common courtesy to give napkins to the other two (and deservedly so)! 

So I unfold her napkin, and surely enough, another name, Amy, and a phone number is written on it! This time, as I stare at the napkin, Portman instantly realized what was going on. 

"Fulton, my bro! That waitress wants you, doesn't she?" 

I fold the napkin again, but he takes it to see the name and confirm his suspicions. Just when Portman begins to laugh at my misfortune, _yet another_ waitress, this time a brunette with admittedly great assets, comes up to the table, places her napkin full of forks and spoons in front of me, smiles, and turns to walk away, only to be confronted by Amy and Anita. The three of them start squabbling about who should serve Mr. Reed, and pretty soon, oh no, a bitch fight ensued. 

"Oh, hell yeah!" Portman cries, apparently unaware that his fiancé is right next to him. I just opened her napkin to see the same results: A name, Sally, and a phone number. The weird thing was that Amber doesn't look totally surprised to see her future husband enjoying the verbal wrestling match among the terrible trio. With that big, white grin of his and those big, keen eyes, I can tell that he was getting really turned on by the sight. So, he starts going at it on Amber, right then and there, first with a few kisses on the cheek, and then more on her neck, while Amber enjoys instant microwaveable pleasure. 

And then, when he embraces her and moves his lips towards the back of her neck, his eyes pierce through her hair, towards me. I can't believe it: He's waiting for my reaction. Now they're really pissing me off! 

You know what? I'm not going to give it to him. I'm just going to sit here, try to mind my own business and pretend I'm happy and that everything's okay, even though inside me, I feel like total crap. As I try really hard not to wince at him, as our friendship turns into a Jerry Springer special, as my eyes hold back the tears and my lips hold back every venomous four-letter word I could scream at both of them, as my best friend and only love pulled my heart from my very chest with his bare hands and threw it in the trash can where everybody else thinks it is, my anger and pain focused on my own self. 

"Oh, baby. I can't wait to marry you!" Portman speaks through the kisses as he continues to look at me for a change in expression. But I'm not giving him the pleasure. Fulton, be strong for once; he's just playing with your mind. But Portman never did this before! Then again, it just proves, once again of course, just how utterly clueless I am at these things. It's not as though he wants me around all the time, but that look of his gives me the clue: He doesn't want me around him anymore. It's over. We're finished. I failed. 

When that dawned on me, I just took the napkins, got up, and stormed out, not even looking back at Portman to see what he was going to say. I know, it's drama and believe me, I'd be the last guy on the planet to act in one, but I can only put up with so much crap. 

"Oh c'mon, bro! What's your problem?" I'm not even going to answer that. I leave the restaurant and, seeing that there's a bus out in front, I take advantage and board it. When I do, I take a seat next to the window. There he was, running towards the bus and trying to catch up with it as it pulls away. Seeing that he was too slow to match the bus's speed, Portman gives up and stops running, but not before giving me the finger and shouting something that couldn't be heard from inside the bus. From reading his lips, it must've been his cunning "fuck off" that's so typical of him. I couldn't help but do the same and move my lips so that he could read off my "fuck you" as I pull the finger at him. 

You know, I haven't been on public transportation in a long time. Suddenly, all the thoughts that I couldn't make out came rushing through my head like a speeding train just passing through. It was on that bus that I started to cry again. Dammit, Fulton, will you stop that? You're gonna make yourself look like some damn pansy! As I reach for one of the napkins, I read the number on it. It was Sally's. 

He hurt me badly, so now I think I'll hurt him. 

Once I get to my apartment, I reach for the phone and call her, and was a bit surprised to know that she was still working at the moment. She was using her cell phone and I was interrupting her, so I gave her my number and asked her to call me back as soon as possible. 

When she did, she went through a few details about her, to which I just nodded off. Then I asked her when her shift would be over. Learning that she should be done by eleven, I give her a few instructions and arrange a meeting time. With that, I hung up and prepared myself. I went to my room and got myself a few blankets, some condoms, and a little lube. I changed my outfit completely, from my standard scarf-coat-and-bandana to this nice and cool Eddie Bauer look (of course, with some tight ass boxer briefs). I took all the stuff down and hid it in my Hummer and, when 10:40 came, I took off. 

And there she was, waiting in front of Nippon Edo, but without her apron. I opened the passenger door for her, and she climbed aboard. Then, I started the car and drove away. At first, we said absolutely nothing. Then, I turned on the radio to this alternative station. 

Then, as I stop at a red light, she moves her hand onto my thigh, as though she didn't even think about it. I turned to see her dewy eyes looking at me as though I was some sort of teeny bopper boy. It was not my thing at all, because I wasn't feeling anything inside of me. If a guy did what she did, my pecker would've taken flight! As she rubbed my thigh, I ask in this totally unthawed tone, "Uhm, where do you live?" 

"Just a couple of blocks down. It's not far." Then she moved her hand in my crotch. How weird. Nothing happens. 

We didn't talk much except when I needed directions. After about a few minutes of automobile foreplay, we wind up in front of this nice house with a nicely cut lawn and a few sedans in front. I stop the car. I didn't know what to do. Do I want her to get off and not pester me, or do I want her to stay, be a nice guy for once, and fulfill a girl's most secret desire, to have herself banged by a Bash Brother? 

Well, she didn't want to get off. Instead, she just stays there and stares at me, now moving her hand under my shirt, feeling my chest. Then she motions her head towards the back seat. Without any delay, the two of us head to the back and start undressing. 

Well, let's just say that I didn't perform. I couldn't. Who was I kidding? Girls just aren't my thing. I knew that since I was ten. I've rarely ever been to second base with any girl, and even then, I just can't do it, because my thoughts are always in guys... and in Dean. To make matters worse, I now broke an innocent girl's heart. Now I'm feeling guilt and anger at myself for what I did. I turn to see her dejected face as Sally dresses herself up. 

She tries to comfort me by saying, "Maybe it was a little too fast." 

She didn't deserve to be the victim of my cruel and stupid pranks, so I didn't want to give some excuse as to why a guy like me would be impotent, even though I'm not. 

"No, it wasn't because of that." I'm not going to lie to myself like that anymore. 

"Maybe it was a tough day, and you play hockey, so that must be stressful on you." 

I shake my head again. 

"Then what? It's not like you're into guys, right?" 

And that did it for me. I just looked down at my naked body in shame. She caught on. Women have this weird way of catching on to things. 

"Oh. I'm so sorry." 

"It's okay. It's totally my fault, and I didn't mean to hurt you." 

"Well, don't worry about it. Your secret is safe with me, okay?" And with that, she got out of the car and into her home. 

I just lied there under the blankets in my Hummer and kept thinking about this whole mess, how I made Dean mad, how stupid it was to prove my "manliness" this way, and how I just keep ruining people's hopes and loves up and down. I felt sorry, and I knew I owed Dean and myself a huge apology. 

*** 

Author's Note: I just wanted to say thank you for those who have been keeping up with this mish-mash of a story, especially Hippy Flower, CakeEater, and lyncanthrope. Your help and criticisms are very much appreciated. As you can tell, the writing is rather deadpan and not so focused on inner emotions. In fact, after some study into the structure of a romance, I realize that I've been going about this entirely wrong. Still, I'll press on and, hopefully, our two favorite enforcers will kiss and make up, but I won't say. Thanks! 


	7. This Humor of Sherry

This Humor Of Sherry 

I like it - I'm not gonna crack 

I miss you - I'm not gonna crack 

I love you - I'm not gonna crack 

I killed you - I'm not gonna crack 

-Nirvana, "Lithium" 

*** 

Portman

I hate alarms! I _really_ hate them, especially when they wake me up, like the one on the radio next to my bed. I'm not exactly the morning type, and it's 6 AM. Usually, Fulton wakes up almost always a half hour before me, so that he could wake me up in his way, usually by attacking me with kisses or water or even a good spanking. Otherwise, I'd doze off to Sleepyland, not giving a care about the day. I have to get up, though: Both of us have a plane to Calgary to catch at nine. It's just that I don't have the forces to do it. 

_Oh, Fulton, where the hell are you?_

I smash the alarm button with the palm of my hand, leaving the radio on to my favorite morning talk show. Surely enough, they were talking about our game with the Flames early tomorrow, and they were going about their little analysis, which was nothing more than a bunch of retarded sayings about how we'll beat their asses and how everyone else should watch out 'cause there's a Bash about, or some stupid shit like that. 

It was a long night last night, now that I remember it. After Fulton's little bitchslap, I stayed with Amber at that Japanese restaurant. It was pretty cool to see the waitresses to duke it out in the kitchen while we were eating sushi or whatever. While we were eating, I told her about what happened with me and Fulton. To that, she asked, "Portman, why do you keep hanging around with him, if he treats you like that?" 

I thought about that for a minute, not believing that I actually did. "Because we're friends, and he puts up a lot of my crap, just as I put up with his." 

"Why?" 

"Give him a break, will you? He saved my life today." 

After telling her the details, Amber was amused, but not totally impressed with my ode to Fulton. "It's okay, I guess, but I think the guy has issues." 

"What issues? He's okay!" 

Now really annoyed, Amber went, "Then why did he walk off like that?" 

I gave a big sigh of cluelessness as I went, "I don't know. He didn't tell me." Then again, of course I knew what was wrong, if it was wrong at all, but she'd have a field day if she knew. 

"Well, your best friend obviously has issues! Oh wait," she lightens up as she fixes her makeup, "I saw him just before he left. He had this look as though he was jealous. That must be it! He's jealous." 

Now I was getting annoyed. "And who would he be jealous of?" 

"You, duh! You know what my friends say about the guy?" Note that she didn't lower her tone while she was saying this. "The guy has some major 'sex problems', and he's jealous of you because you're getting married with me because you obviously don't have 'sex problems'!" 

My jaw dropped. With that kind of logic, she should stay away from math, like I did at school. I told her to just drop it and order something. I dropped her off later that night in my red hot Porsche. 

Now that I remember that, I kinda wondered why I am hanging around with her. Yeah, she was pretty and all, but I don't know. Maybe Fulton's right. Maybe I'm rushing it a little. Maybe I should've been a little more choosy about who'd I marry. 

No, it's something else, I know it. 

Just then, on the radio, the DJ takes this phone call from some guy. Instantly, I recognize the voice as it gives the code name, "Reed." Then, as the DJ asks for his dedication, "Reed" goes, "Uhm, I want to dedicate it to my best friend. He knows who he is, and I know he's trying to go back to sleep now. I love you; you're the coolest, and I'm sorry about last night." Then the voice disappears, and the song plays. It was "Lithium", by Nirvana. 

When the song started, my head began to bop. Bit by bit, I was waking up, and when Cobain hit the chorus, my feet were already on the floor. I get up to play my famous air guitar, following all the riffs and chords, banging my head into the air, singing to every lyric, and giving this happy grin all the way to the shower. It was the perfect way to start the day. Fulton knows how to get me up out of bed with a smile on my face. 

As I'm in the shower, singing to a song that was long over, I realized that all the things I wanted in a friend were also the things I wanted in my... wife? 

_Husband?_

Then it hit me: I've been totally okay about me and Fulton being boyfriends, but the thought of _marrying_ him, if that was even possible, or at least committing my entire life to him, scared me. I mean, you wouldn't be _totally_ committed to him, not legally anyway, so you wouldn't have to mess around with divorces and all that shit, but girls and guys marry each other all the time and look at what happens. But if I loved him and really mean it, then the idea of two guys committing to each other for all their lives might work. It's too much of a trip. What would people think? 

Then, I think, why the fuck do I care what people think? I'm Dean Portman, a Bash Brother, and I can do whatever the fuck I want! Maybe the better question was why I'm suddenly giving a fuck about what people think. 

I mean, if I could find a girl who was just like Fulton Reed, I'd marry her in a hot second, because to me Fulton has it all. He's hot and cute, but he never wants to admit it. When I waked up every morning, I just had to look towards that pudgy round face and small but sure smile of his to find my reason to get out of bed, and when we made love in the evening, his touch would excite every fiber of my body and send me to a world of pleasure and passion. He loved watching football in bed with me, always went to NASCAR races with me, and jumped in the fight when I was down for me. He does a lot of things with me. Plus, he was patient, romantic, smart (though he never wants to admit it), and he has this humor of sherry, extra-dry. When something bad is afoot, he always had some smartass thing to say. But above everything else, Fulton is loyal, the kind of guy who'd take a bullet for you, just because he wants you to live, probably as opposed to wanting himself to live. He'd die for me. He proved it to me yesterday! Oh crap, I didn't even thank him for it. Man, I'm suck a jackass! No wonder he's pissed at me! 

Man, I missed it all, so I jump out of the shower and make the phone call. 

"Dude, please come down. We need to talk." I couldn't contain my excitement. 

"I want to talk to you, too." He sounded a little desperate. 

"Please haul your ass down here, 'cause I want to tell you something, too. It's super important!" 

So he hangs up, and a few minutes later, with the key that I gave him, he opens the door to my apartment. As I could tell, he was already ready to go to the airport, wearing his camouflage coat, that scarf of his, his cut-off black gloves, the boots, the bandana, the black undershirt sporting some band's name, the whole bit. As for me, I'm wearing nothing at all. Fulton closes the door behind him and sees my nakedness. A big grin grows across his face. 

"Mr. Portman, I think you're trying to seduce me." 

We both walk towards each other and hold our hands. 

"Dude, I'm so sorry about last night." Fulton goes. 

"Dude, I'm so sorry about everything else." I start kissing him on the cheek. I couldn't contain myself. Just the sight of him in that get-up gives me a hard-on, and with it, I could tell he was getting one too. He starts kissing me back, and our lips were pressed against each other once again after five long months. 

As I undressed my Bash Bro, I go, "Did you know that you're one helluva great kisser?" 

"I always forget. That's why I need you to remind me." 

Whoa! With that, he moves his lips to my shoulder. That did it. Once he's there, my hormones unleash with rage and obsession. I don't even hesitate to pull him towards my bed. I don't care if we missed our flight. This was our moment! 

Fulton

And with those big yelps we gave out throughout that one passionate hour of wine and roses, it was pretty clear that we missed each other rather badly! 

*** 

Author's Note: Sorry for such a short chapter. I hope this come-together wasn't too fast for your tastes. Hopefully, however, you're keeping up with the suggested songs as well. They're really good, and they give a wonderful mood to each chapter. Thanks for reading, and more will be on the way, I promise! 


	8. Constructive Criticism

Constructive Criticism 

Truth - covered in security 

I can't let you smother me 

I'd like to, but it couldn't work 

Trading off and taking turns 

I don't regret a thing 

-Nirvana, "Lounge Act" 

*** 

Fulton

_"Show him everything...."_

I still don't get it. What's there to show? There's nothing but sand and ocean here. 

Man, this beach is tripping me out. I've been here so many times, and I still can't figure it out. I turn and see the Portman of my Dreams, still holding that big rope that leads back into the dark ocean. 

But this time, it's different, because now Portman hands me the rope, motioning me to pull it. I follow his orders, and I keep pulling and pulling, and this went on for what felt like hours. Then, finally, something emerges from the dark ocean. Excited, I pull the rope even faster. Whatever it was finally made it to shore, even though it's covered in seaweed and the seagulls swoop down to poke at it with their beaks. I shoo away the birds and take off the seaweed. I could make out the number 21 poking out through the seaweeds. 

It was Portman, the _real_ Dean Portman! I turn him on his front side, and bruises cover his face. Then, the Portman of my Dreams comes from behind and says, "Well, Mr. Reed, you lost another one!" 

The phone rings, and I violently pry my eyes open and turn on the lamp to see the hotel room littered with our clothes and Portman snoring away next to me in my bed. I try to get the phone, but Portman's arm is tightly wrapped around my frame and against his bare chest. Finally, I get myself out of his bind (only to move his hand over my hair), and get the phone. It's our wake-up call, and I check the alarm clock next to our bed. Five in the morning. Dang. I shake Portman to get him up, but he won't budge, so with my fingers I shut his nostrils and wait until he can't breathe. With that, Portman instantly wakes up with eyes wide open, hyperventilating like crazy and screaming "What the fuck!?" That cracks me up so much, I fall over the bed and roll over the floor with laughter. 

We shower (together, of course) and catch up with Bosco at the lobby, noting to myself that he looks a little down this morning. Portman tries to cheer him up, but Bosco just smiles like the cool jock he is. We meet up with this chunky young guy with these tight-fitting polo shirt and jeans, who introduced us as our escort for our day in L.A. We get in this comfy van and head out for our first stop. 

Being the most wanted hockey players of the moment, Portman and I had a super busy schedule, which included not one but _two_ commercials we had to do. The first was to advertise this 10-10-I-don't-know number that you always see on T.V. The other one was this Pepsi commercial that adulterates my favorite soft drink with a new flavor: Kiwi. 

When we get to the studio at six-thirty, we get our scripts and rehearse what we're going to do. At nine, we shoot. Basically, we're in this set that looks like a coffee shop, and the idea is that this girl wonders what she can buy for a dollar. Then Portman and I step in and say (well, Portman does most of the talking, which is more than okay by me) that 10-10-something-or-the-other can get you 20 minutes of long distance for a buck. The girl then goes, "That's like, whoa, is that really true?" Then, Bosco comes from behind the counter wearing an apron and holding this empty foam cup, saying "Am I Jon Bosco?" It sounds cheesy, but it works. We do a few takes and by twelve we're done. 

By then, our stomachs growl for solid nourishment, so our escort takes the three of us to this nice place that wasn't too far. No longer ignoring Bosco's funk, Portman asks cheerfully what's eating up our center and captain. 

"I was supposed to do a photo shoot today. It was this other endorsement that fell through. You know about that?" 

"Oh, dude, that sucks!" Portman goes. 

"Well, it was for this Kiwi Pepsi thing, right? Kemp and I were working our asses off on landing this sweet ass deal, but then I heard a month ago that Pepsi finally chose someone else for it." Bosco leans back and returns to his former state of funk. 

I knew this wasn't going to be good, considering that we got our deal a month ago, too. I stop eating and keep quiet in hopes of not making things worse. The problem was that Portman didn't. 

"Was it the one that was worth $4 million?" 

Bosco's curiosity awakes as he replies, "Yeah?" 

"And had a commercial as part of the deal?" 

Now even more curious, Bosco says, "Yeah, there was. Did Kemp tell you about it or who it went to, 'cause to be honest, I feel like strangling the bastard." 

Portman's face lights up. "Dude, that's _our_ deal!" 

Way to go, Dean. 

Bosco face turned to this unhealthy red color, gawks at us, and shook his head in total disbelief, whispering to himself, "I can't believe this. I can't fucking believe this." 

Portman tried to apologize, but Bosco cut him off angrily and started, "Do you know how fucking hard it was to get me that deal?" 

"Dude, we're real sorry. You're a kick-ass center, and I'm sure you'll get a sweet deal to land on your door one day." Portman says in his cheerful tone, hoping he could bring up Bosco's spirits. 

I don't know, but I'm thinking that Bosco's not impressed with anything that's coming out of Portman's mouth right now and, to be honest, he probably never was. Finally, in this irritated but calm tone, Bosco tells him to "just shut up." Bosco brushes his hair with his hand as Portman tells him to "chill out". Then, Bosco slams his hand on the table and says, "You know what? Fuck it. I'll eat outside." And that's what he does, but not before calling Dean a "fucking ditz." Portman heard this, but he looked unaffected and just shrugged his shoulders. I too heard it, but I didn't take it as lightly. I get up and stop Bosco short, relaxing my hand over his shoulder. 

"That wasn't cool. Look, I'm sorry about the whole thing. I'll talk to Mr. Kemp. There has to be a mistake somewhere, so maybe we can fix it, but you didn't have to insult Dean." 

Bosco seems touched but unmoved as he comes closer and replies quietly, "Reed, I respect you a lot, okay, so please take what I'm about to say as constructive criticism." He then comes even closer, glances quickly at Portman, then speaks to me, "You're better than _this_." With that, he leaves. 

The waiter then heads to see what the trouble was. I apologize to him by saying, "He's not really a big fan of pastrami." Boy, that came off bad. We keep eating inside, while Bosco eats outside. We paid the bill and went off with our escort to drop off the now irreparibly depressed Bosco at the hotel and then head to another studio to do the commercial. I wasn't feeling too well about the day. Portman really pissed Bosco off, but I know it's totally my fault. 

And I knew that wasn't a good thing, too, because tomorrow we had this game with the Anaheim Ducks. I've been hearing a lot of scary stuff about them this season, like how they just signed these two new enforcers who are supposed to be the west coast version of us and are as of yet 7-1-1 for the season. This was definitely not the time to have gripes. 

Portman

Being a Bash Brother is full of responsibilities. First, there are the two commercials. Then, we go do this radio interview and take these calls from our fans here in L.A., and by the looks of how those phone boards are lighting up, I can safely bet that there are lots, even though we know we'll beat their home teams in a cinch, just like we beat Calgary, San Jose, and L.A. As always, I do all the talking, and Fulton just answers any question they have for him, staying quiet the rest of the time to give way to my rants. Nothing personal was asked, which was good, because I really didn't want to lie about the great things that were going on in my private life now. 

After that, we did yet another interview, this time with some TV anchor guy. It's the same deal as the radio interview; nothing special happens. Good, good. 

Somehow, I'm getting the feeling that Fulton wasn't happy with me, especially since lunchtime today. He's gazing outside the window, staying in that little world of his that I never get to see. He probably felt bad about taking Bosco's deal away. I was a little upset about that, because that was a super sweet deal we had now with Pepsi. I don't want to let go of it, but I don't want Fulton getting a guilt trip, too. Wanting to know if it was me or Bosco, I raise my fingers in front of his face and snap them, and he comes back with a little shake. 

"Bro, you're spacing out again." 

Suddenly snapping out of it, Fulton speaks softly, "Oh, sorry bro." 

"What's up?" He didn't say anything, but if you want to get anything out of Fulton's mouth, you had to ask the right question, and even then he might not answer. "Is it about that whole Pespi thing with Bosco?" 

"Dean, you shouldn't have told him." 

"I know, but it just came out." 

"Just be careful next time, okay?" 

"Yeah," I say through a sigh. 

"Why didn't Mr. Kemp tell us about it? I mean, Bosco was working his ass off to get it, but it's ours. It doesn't feel right." 

"Dude, don't feel too bad about it." 

"But I _have_ to feel bad about it! He's our teammate, Dean! We have to talk to Mr. Kemp and see if we can get us out of it." 

That didn't hit me right, and it makes me sad, but Fulton goes on. 

"Dean, I know it's a good deal and all, but it's not ours." Making sure the escort wasn't looking, he holds my hand. "We can get better deals. We'll just talk to Mr. Kemp about it, okay?" 

If it was anyone else, I would've said no (and in a much more colorful way), but this is Fulton. His thumb rubs against my hand, and it sends me this chill of pleasure and peace into my body. With his comforting touch, I nod to give the okay. Then Fulton asks, "Bro, I don't mean to ask you, but, about what Bosco said in the restaurant?" 

"About me being a ditz?" 

"Yeah. Doesn't that hurt? I was thinking that you'd be a little more pissed." 

"Bro, I'm totally okay with it. I'm not a smart guy and all, but I can live with it. Plus, he just said it because he was angry, right? Don't sweat it." I shrug it off. I think I can hold a straight face better than Fulton. Fulton was a really smart guy, while I was a stupid jock, and I have to accept that. I could _never_ come close to having his brains. 

It was getting dark, and Bosco's funk was contagious. To break the mood, I ask our escort to take us to some popular nightclub to pass the time. After a long day of work, Fulton and I need the time-out to undo this ball of yarn in us and get our asses drunk a little. 

We go to this place called the Viper Room, where all the popular kids hang out. The room was dark and there was this DJ playing music that bumped through our bodies as though it was trying to replace our heartbeats. I let the music flow through me, and pretty soon I start jumping up and down. Fulton isn't much of a dancer, so he heads to the bar, but I was so pumped up, I pull him back and, seeing that no one seems to care, I kiss him smack-dab on the lips. 

With that, Fulton gives this big grin and juicy eyes and starts grooving to the music. After a couple of hours of mindless fun, we finally pull ourselves to the bar. There, Fulton orders two Buds for himself as I order a Heineken. As I drink my beer, I note this guy who's glaring at me with a smile. He's this buff-looking Latino guy in his late twenties who wears a tight-ass polo shirt that shows off his huge chest and arms as if they want to break free. I smile back and poke Fulton as the guy turns away. I whisper to Fulton, "Fult, there's this really hot dude sitting down there." I point to where he is, chatting away with this equally buff, young, and hung white dude. As the guy turns back, Fulton and I turn away. 

"I guess we better turn on the A/C." Fulton goes dryly. I hide my face behind my Heineken and move my eyes to see him from the side of the bottle. He's still looking at me with that contagious smile of his. Fulton just drinks his Buds and ignores him, occasionally glancing at the guy and studying him. 

Seeing that Fulton wasn't moved by the display of manly assets, I say to him, "Dude, you don't look impressed." 

"I think he's playing with you." 

"Oh, come on, bro! Otherwise he wouldn't be flirting at me. Maybe we could even have a threesome." 

Fulton turns to me with this drunken look. "What?" 

"Yeah, that'd be so awesome! Maybe I can talk him into it." 

"You're serious?" 

"Yeah." 

"What if he knows who we are and tells everyone about it?" 

"C'mon, bro! It's not as if _everyone_ knows who we are! It'll be fun!" 

Fulton has a mixed view on threesomes. We once did a threesome in his Hummer with this girl we picked up at a bar one night about a year ago. Fulton wasn't too up for it, so after trying real hard to wake his erotic side up but to no avail, he quit and stood outside the car in the cold night on this lonely road, waiting until I was done with her. I know threesomes are definitely not intimate things, but at least he understands it's just for fun and not for intimacy. Fulton tries really hard to hide his smirk, but he couldn't erase it. I can tell he's been meaning to do two other guys at the same time for a long time, so he was definitely not going to deny the opportunity to unleash his animalistic desires. 

Still, Fulton doesn't give, and as he takes one more careful look at the guy, he goes, "I still think the guy's playing with you." 

"Then just let me go and I'll figure it out." 

He doesn't like the idea, but he sighs and nods to give me the okay. 

So I walk over to him, place my hand softly over the guy's shoulder, and wait for his answer. He turns his merry face towards me, showing his sexy eyes and luscious lips. He looks totally okay with it, so he gestures with his head towards this exit nearby and goes off. Once he exits, I give a heads-up to Fulton, who raises his bottle to give me good luck, and I exit. 

And there he is in the narrow alley, under this light blue lamp that glistened over his soft face, relaxing against the wall, his heavy gaze pulling me in. I come close to his body, but he stops me short, grabs me by my shoulders, and softly swings me against the wall. With that, our eyes lock as his hands begin running through my hair. He speaks with this quiet yet light and not-too-manly voice, 

"You're a pretty hot stud." 

"Yeah, 'cause I was born hot!" Yeah, I was enjoying this. 

He slowly takes off my leather jacket and says, "My place isn't very far from here. If you're not busy or anything, maybe you could come over." 

Not even trying to resist his charm, I reply, "You mind if I bring a friend along?" 

With that, he raises my shirt from out of my pants, comes closer to my face and whispers, "Sounds great. In fact, it sounds perfect. I mean, why not take advantage, right?" He comes even closer and speaks in my ear. "Because there's nothing better than fucking up not one but _two_ faggots, right?" 

Uh-oh. I was in deep shit. 

Just when I realized I walked into a trap, his fist rams into my bare stomach, and I cringe to the floor. Damnit! He caught me off guard! 

"Especially two faggot enforcers, right Dean Portman?" 

He recognized me! Now I was in _really_ deep shit! 

He pulls me up by the hair and closes my mouth with his hand. "And just who could be this little friend so that I take a stab at him, too? Is it Fulton Reed? I bet he's your fuck buddy, huh?" I punch the guy in the stomach, but he weathers it and sends a jab into my face, which nearly knocked me out. Whoa, this was a strong ass motherfucker! He pushes me up against the wall again and tries another fast jab at my face, but my adrenaline starts pumping in me as I quickly dodge his fist, which instead slams to the brick wall, nearly piercing it through! That just gives me a second to snap behind him and wrap my right arm around his neck to choke him. He then crouches down and sends me flying over him and onto some trash cans. I couldn't move a muscle. I was paralyzed, and coming from a Bash Brother, that's saying a lot! His foot then slams onto my stomach. "How do you like that, Dean Portman? It's not very fun being queer, is it?" 

Just then, the white dude that was with the Latino dude earlier comes out of the club, grinning at the sight of me on the floor, bruised and bleeding. Oh shit. I start screaming Fulton's name, but the traffic on the street is too loud to hear my weakened voice. The Latino guy now anchors me down with his foot. I try calling his name again. "Fulton...." 

Fulton

It's like ESP or something. Maybe it was a sixth sense, but whatever it was, it pierced through the loud and thumping music and rang in my head as I drank my beer. Dean's in trouble. I stop drinking. 

Portman

The white dude now picks up this steel pole and walks up to me. 

"Fulton...." 

Fulton

It's still there. 

"Dean...." 

I jump out of my chair, jogging towards that exit, not knowing if something was really up or if I'm losing my marbles. 

Portman

Fulton bursts out of the club and sees my body now anchored by the Latino guy's foot. 

"Fult, behind you!" 

The white guy raises the pole, ready to hit me, but Fulton grabs the pole from behind him, pulls him away from me, and slams him against the wall. The pole falls from the guy's hand. Fulton picks it up and smacks it straight onto the guy's face! The white guy falls like a log to the ground, totally knocked out. The pole hits him so hard; it rings like a bell! That surprised everyone else, except Fulton, whose eyes are turning into steel and stares squarely at the Latino guy. Fulton's teeth were grinding, and he grips the pole real tight in his hand. Not even on the ice can you see Fulton worked up like he is now, and when Fulton's pissed as hell, it shows. 

Then, raising the poll over his chest, Fulton says, "Get your filthy foot off of him!" 

The Latino guy doesn't budge. Instead, his foot just grinds into my stomach even more. Fulton decides to finish him off without the pole, drops it, and marches towards the Latino guy. The guy swings for a punch, but Fulton swings behind him, picks him by the shirt, and sends him flying onto the wall with enough force to make a dent on the stucco. Once he makes sure the two guys are down and out, he props me up against his shoulders and helps me walk away from the bastards and down the dark alley. But the bastards get up and limp towards us. Fulton and I run a little faster, taking advantage of the fact that we could walk and they couldn't. Fulton then points to another dark alley, and we hide there. 

Now that I think of it, I really did act like chicken shit back there. They fucked me up, and I wanted to pay back the favor. I turn around and head back, but Fulton grabs my arm and shakes his head. 

"Don't fight back. You can't take them on by yourself!" 

"You can!" 

"I don't want to get us into another fight, okay? Please? Let's just get away this one time." 

I didn't want to, but let's be honest. I couldn't even come close to leaving a scratch on those buff assholes, let alone punch them. Plus, this wasn't Fulton's fight, and he's a real pacifist. It's always me that starts the fights and him bailing me out of them. His tight hug and a brush of his hand over my bruised abs soothe me and simmer my anger down. Once we're both calm, we poke our heads out to the first alley. They're gone. Seeing that the coast is clear, we run back up towards the street, but then, a pair of headlights pops up from the side of the alley and shines in front of us and a motor revs up. Shit, more trouble. The car screeches as it speeds towards us, getting faster and faster. Fulton and I run as fast as we can, but my bruises were slowing me down, so Fulton pulls me to this backdoor to a house, smashes it down with his foot, and quickly moves the both of us inside as the speeding car almost grazes us. Once it's past us, the two of us get out and see the car swerving into a street, giving us a glimpse of the driver. It's those two bastards again. 

"We got the dirt on your asses, Bash Brothers!" The Latino guy goes as he speeds off into the night. 

Now we're all alone in the alley. We start walking up towards the busy street. 

"I'm so sorry I left you like that. I didn't save you." 

"Are you kidding, Fulton? You creamed those assholes!" 

"But I didn't _save_ you!" 

"Dude, it's okay." 

"It's _not_ okay! I shouldn't have let you go alone." 

Trying to reason with him, I go, "If you didn't show up at all, I would've gotten the ringing dildo treatment from the buff white guy!" 

Hearing that, Fulton stops and looks at me. "Please promise me something: Let's never talk about doing a threesome again." 

I shook his hand. "Deal!" 

I call our escort with my cell phone and the number he gave me, trying to tell him where we are. After an hour, he finally finds us and helps me into the car. Once we're in, I go on and tell him what happened (except for the flirting part, of course). Fulton insists that we go to the hospital, but I keep telling him that I'll be fine. 

But then, as we were heading back, I remember something that happened as I tried to call Fulton. I know he couldn't possibly hear me calling him, but he knew I was in trouble. I turn to him, and, whoa, he turns to me with the same dumb look that I gave off. _He's thinking the exact same thing!_ Somehow, our minds were in sync. We were talking to each other without really _talking_. It's freaking _both of us_ out! 

Is love supposed to do that? 


	9. Vindication

Vindication 

Soon to fill our lungs 

the hot winds of death 

The gods are laughing, 

so take your last breath 

-Metallica, "Fight Fire With Fire" 

*** 

Fulton

The TV is tuned to a late night football game, with the volume low in my room. Portman sits on my bed as I gently clean the wounds on his naked torso with a wet towel and some peroxide. The blue glow of the TV reflects on Portman's bruised abs and cuts through the yellow light of the nearby table lamp. I could feel the burn of peroxide on my neck as he winces with every touch of it on his skin. Portman holds on to the sides of the bed as he both smirks with pain and smiles at my presence. I still feel bad, knowing that I could've done better and worse with those guys. Believe me, I don't like fighting, and I do my very best to help people out, keep myself quiet and out of trouble, and be nice to everyone, but if someone messes with Dean, my Dean, the animal side of me surfaces to my face and my anger unleashes at whoever hurts him. I swore to myself that anyone who even comes close to hurting my Dean like that again would face the deadly wrath of Fulton Reed. 

Once I'm done cleaning his wounds, I help him recline on my bed and hide him under my sheets. Portman just smiles at me. Man, I love it when he smiles. It always reminds me of the humility, innocence, and purity that exist in Dean's heart. Seeing that smile makes my eyes watery, because it's something I'll never experience. How I want to be humble again! How I want to be innocent and pure! How could he keep it up? Smiles like that are never for me to make. 

I turn off the table lamp, leaving the glow of the TV and the low voices coming from it to lightly fill the black room. I recline next to Portman to get ready for our much-needed sleep for tomorrow's game. Knowing that those painkillers could only do so much, I stroke his nipple with my fingers back and forth to shadow his pain with some pleasure. My arm wraps around his shoulders as I prop myself up to see his face straight on. Only I ever got to see those puppy eyes. 

"Dean, promise me something? Let's never talk about threesomes again." I tell him softly into those eyes. 

"I promise, bro." Dean replies, almost inaudibly. 

"Scouts' honor?" 

"Scouts' honor." Dean chuckles. 

"Cross your heart?" 

"Cross my heart." 

"And hope to die?" 

He hesitates, but smiles when he says, 

"And hope to die." 

Portman

It's so hard to break away from Fulton's look. I swear, any time now, and I'll come running across the rattling of the locker room and pull his long black hair towards my face and push his body inside his locker to kiss him, caress him, and fuck him right there! I just can't resist! 

The weird thing is that he's also having a hard time holding back as the two of us and the rest of the team come in and undress for this morning's practice. He takes off his shirt and shows me his huge chest, which I never get bored of seeing. I try to do the same, but then I remembered about last night and the sight of a bruised Dean Portman could depress the rest of the team. Dammit, though, we know what we're thinking now as we give the looks and smiles that hunger for lust at each other from across the locker room. Finally, as he takes off his pants to reveal his last remaining line of defense, his old boxers that bulged with his package, I can't resist anymore! I get up and go to where he is, but realizing that we're still in a locker room full of guys, all I can do is to just pat him on his bare shoulder and rub it a little. He turns to me smiling. I crouch down and whisper in his ear. 

"Damn, bro, you picked a fuckin' good time to turn me on!" 

"Don't I always?" 

Then I go to Bosco to apologize for last night, but all he does is go, "The damage is done," and continues gearing up. He's still pissed at me. Dang. 

When we're done, we all go to this room for our briefing. Coach Manning looked really moody today. He probably woke up on the wrong side of the bed as usual. 

"Guys, we have what is known as a Frank Spencer situation. 'Hmm, Betty, we've got a little bit of trouble.'" 

I didn't get it. Was that a joke or something? 

"Anyway, we've got a whole slew of stars in this game. Number 96, Charles Conway, is starting to make a run for the money this season, so Bosco, keep your egotistical ramblings to yourself for once." 

Everyone smiled at that one. 

"But, guys, he's the least of your worries tonight. The Anaheim Ducks have recently signed these two new goons from the minors. Reed and Portman, are you listening? This especially applies to you two. These guys are pure assholes, and they're as hard as they come. They're known as the Diamond Ducks, Number 60, Marco Pomona, and Number 57, Piccadilly 'The Puck' Orange." 

Oh hell h'yeah! Piccadilly! That's fresh; an enforcer named Picadilly! Oh man! 

"Yeah, Portman, laugh it up, because you'll need all the cheer in the world to knock these guys out!" 

Then Manning puts on this videotape of the Diamond Ducks for us to watch. Those big laughs and utter hilarity now turn to big gasps of shock and utter fear, because what I'm seeing on that TV screen is scaring the crap out of me. These guys could lift players off their shoulders and over the glass like nothing! Add speed to that, and they could plow through an entire lineup just seconds after they hit the ice! And the fights, well, unlike those _other_ hockey fights, there were winners! Those two could beat the shit out of anyone who even so much looks at them the wrong way! 

And that's not all! Manning talks over the tape, saying that, considering the Diamond Ducks have only played nine season games as professionals, the two alone have badly injured a whopping _twenty_ players! Most of them won't be playing again for at least for the rest of the season, if they're lucky enough to recuperate, while some others are so banged up, you could safely bet that their careers in professional hockey were over. 

As I see and hear this, fear and panic runs over me. Sitting next to me, Fulton sweats and gawks at what he sees. _He's just as scared as I am._ To calm ourselves, we bring down our hands close together, not letting anyone see them, and hold our pinkies tightly together. At least I know my brother-on-ice will be there with me. 

Fulton

After a long practice and a quick nap in the locker room, we ready ourselves for what could be one hell of a show tonight, Ducks versus Wild. Once the team's ready, we exit the locker rooms and enter the Arrowhead Pond, welcomed by cheers, jeers, and lots of camera flashes. We begin doing our pre-game drills as usual, taking note of the tough competition also drilling on the other side of the rink. Number 96, Conway, sees us and gives us a heads-up, and Portman and I respond by doing the same. Just a few guys ahead of him are Numbers 57 and 60 doing their thing, trying to look back at us. I keep it to myself and do my drills with Portman and the rest of the gang. Then, after the national anthem, the two teams form a line for the pre-game shake of hands. I could swear that I see Conway moving his lips saying 'Please don't hurt me' as he passes by and shakes my hand. 

But then we move farther down the line, and we meet Numbers 57 and 60. Upon seeing them, our hearts sank as the joy of seeing Conway after a long time suddenly turned to rabid hate for our newly found enemies. 

_It's those same two fucks at the club last night!_

Now we know why the fans brought their cameras. They know something big is going down tonight. It's like those stories about the Civil War, when early on, when two armies were preparing for battle, the locals would come to the battlefield thinking the battle was just going to be a little show and that the spectators would have a good time. Man, were they in for a surprise! Instead, they saw blood, pain, and anguish as they witnessed history unfolding before their very eyes. 

We go to our side of the rink and wait there. Portman, Manning, and I made the decision to wait until either Pomona or Orange came on the ice, letting them make the first move. Portman can't wait, because anger was running through his body like electricity as he pumps up the rest of the team with his colorful mouth. He pats my neck and sends me that electricity into my body. His thirst for vengeance becomes ours. He then sends these stabbing stares to the Diamond Ducks, who are also sitting down at their benches. Pomona and Orange relish their bloodlust by shooting these mean-ass grins, waiting to eat us alive, towards us. I shoot back my trademark steely stare, ready to unleash my wrath. 

The game begins with Conway with his wings against Bosco, Soto, Abbot, and two other wings. 

Almost immediately, Bosco and our wings have complete control of the puck as Conway and his team chases him. In three minutes of play, Abbot sets himself up for an assist, but as Bosco sends him the puck, Abbot is overwhelmed by two smaller wings. One of them takes the puck and sends it to Conway. At six minutes, Soto is penalized for cross-checking. This gave the Ducks a power play, but Bosco and the three remaining wings hang on. At ten minutes, Abbot is penalized for high-sticking. The puck is handled so gracefully by the two centers; I'm starting to wonder who I am rooting for! The game is clean and organized on both sides, and each of the two teams press on as though they were doing a hockey version of the Blue Danube, which means that nothing really special is going on. By the time the first period ends, no one scores. 

Second period starts, and some new wings come to Bosco's aid. Conway also gets a change of personnel, which, unfortunately, still didn't include Pomona and Orange, who are just as anxious to pulverize us as we were. Portman and I shake our restless bodies and grind our sticks with our hands. The sweat from my head turns my bandana into a black mess of water and salt, and I haven't even played yet! The suspense is killing the both of us, and we're due to die of heart attacks because of it. Our only interest right now is to fuck these guys up. But we have to wait. We just have to wait until they go in first. 

Finally, eight minutes into the period, Bosco single-handedly takes advantage of the temporarily incapacitated goalie and shoots the puck into his net. Being this an away game for us, the goal is welcomed with boos and hisses. This also meant that there would be another change of personnel. Among that change was the replacement of a wing with Mr. Marco Pomona. 

"Yes!" Portman shouts out, no longer able to control the bubbling brew of hatred in him. 

"Reed! You're up!" Manning goes. I put back my bandana and gear up, only to be interrupted by Portman. 

"Wait, coach! Lemme fuck that guy!" 

It was how he said it that gets me, how do you say, aroused. Soon, my passions, pleasures, and eroticisms join forces with my anger to form my own version of bloodlust. Violence has now been equated with sex. The grin of hunger for pain returns to me. 

Manning gives him the go, and he hits the ice against Pomona. Portman and Pomona come together for the face-off. The two grin at each other and hold it. 

Portman

"I guess last night wasn't good enough for you! Now you're back for seconds!" 

"Just doing my nine-to-five, sunshine." I go. 

"I'll see that you really do." 

The linesman drops the puck, and I snap it back to MickeyD. I turn around to join him, and Pomona trails me as MickeyD does his thing with the other wings. MickeyD passes it to Bosco for an open goal, but the goalie saves it. As I swing around the net, hoping to get that puck, Pomona heads to the other side and smashes me on the side against the boards behind the goal. The pain didn't register until I fell onto the ice. It was nothing like I've ever felt before! Nerves communicate the near crush of bones and watering of muscles within the frame of my body. Then I see Pomona racing towards my wings. He swings towards Bosco, who now has the puck, and smashes him, too, handing the puck to the whims of Conway. Shit! I'm an enforcer and I'm not enforcing! I get up only to see another teammate now crashing head on with Pomona as he tries to take the puck from Conway. Conway and Pomona make their way towards our goalie, Harry Lanzetti, and set up the shot, but Lanzetti saves it. He hands it to MickeyD, who now heads towards the other net. Pomona and Conway trail him. This was my chance to annihilate him. 

Conway fishes for the puck from MickeyD, who's holding his own weight, but is tripped by Pomona's stick and falls hard. The referees ignore this and the puck is taken by Pomona. I skate towards Pomona, daring him into a game of chicken. "Come close, my precious!" I whispered to him. Just when we're about to crash head-on, Pomona ducks. I'm too close to stop. My body trips over his and I fall behind him, sliding down the ice to collide with MickeyD, who was barely getting up and now falls again. I see Conway and Pomona swing around the net, set up the shot, and score. Damn! 

Now the pain couldn't be ignored. I was down. 

But then, the badly injured wing goes to the bench, and out comes Fulton. Immediately, the pain turns into pleasure. He goes to where I am and helps me up. 

"Dean, are you okay?" 

Hell yeah! Fulton calling me by my first name is the fresh cup of coffee that wakes me up in the morning! "With you here, bro, I'm always okay." 

Fulton smiles at that, and we take a quick dreamy glance at each other's eyes. We were connecting. That's just what we needed to beat these guys. 

But then, more personnel changes occur on the Ducks' side, and now Orange comes out to play, quietly skating towards Fulton with a cloud of gloom hanging over him. We reunite for the face-off. This time, it's Fulton who will fight Orange for the puck. 

Fulton

Portman stands opposite Pomona. Portman already looks beat, but I nod to him to keep him fresh, and it works.... 

Picadilly Orange is not as puny as the name suggests. The guy is big and hulky, with muscles bulging out of his jersey. His round and unshaven face and large gray eyes could scare kids easily, leaving me to wonder what would happen if he got a spot on Sesame Street! Man, that pole really left a big gash on his head, too. The sight of it, and the fact that the guy survived that smacking, makes me wince. He skates around my body, surveying it. We crouch down, ready to fight for the puck. As we exchange icy glances, Orange says to me in a heavy British accent, "Lovely bum, luv. Pity 'bout the boat race." 

"What?" 

"You don't know your good and proper English, mate? 'Love the ass, but your face is shit!'" 

I said nothing to that. I'll save my fury for the play. 

The puck falls, and Orange takes it. Portman and Pomona crash onto each other. I catch up to Orange and violently check him against the boards, crunching his bones and cracking his helmet. He gets out easily, though. Our right wing, Manny Mednik, takes the puck, but Orange comes to him and presses his shoulder against Mednik's and sends him flying onto the other side of the rink. Meanwhile, Portman gets out of his stalemate with Pomona and barrels down the ice to catch up with Orange. Orange passes it to Conway for the net, but they're not clear for the shot, so the puck is passed back to Orange, who swerves behind the net. Seeing that Mednik got up and is now behind me, I ready myself to hit Orange head on, but as we nearly meet, Orange sees the threat, so he stops short of the crash point, and I careen towards the glass, hitting it with a crunch, and fall to the ice. 

"Bad, bad work, Mr. Starbuck!" Orange mockingly pities me with that damn British accent of his that's getting on my nerves. 

Pomona has Portman pinned along the side of the rink as Portman skates to my aid. Finally, using the glass as leverage, he quickly pushes Pomona off. Orange sends the puck to his wing, gives me a quick kick with his skates, which the referees didn't see, and follows his wing. I quickly get up and follow him. The wing passes the puck to Conway, who shoots for the goal, only to be stopped by Lanzetti's quick glove. 

Meanwhile, Pomona passes the bunch and heads to the center of the rink, where Bosco waits for our puck. Lanzetti gives the puck to Mednik. Remembering that an enforcer's job is to protect his center and wings, Portman and I join him and cover his sides. The three of us head towards Bosco, but seeing that Bosco is also having a tough time shrugging Pomona off, we skip the notion and head for the goal. Just then, Orange, Conway, and their wings speed up towards us. Pomona flings Bosco away with a push and heads straight for Portman. Portman heads towards Pomona, which leaves Mednik's right side open for Orange's near attack. I quickly make it to the other side and block Orange's push for Mednik, which in turn pushes me to the side, though I'm still up and skating. Orange continues chasing Mednik, who now passes the puck to Abbot. Abbot barrels like the Formula One racer that he is to our goal, and Orange tries to keep up with him. Seeing that Abbot could handle himself, I wait for Portman. 

So, Portman heads towards Pomona with speed and rage. The two crash and send themselves sliding in perpendicular directions across the ice, but the two quickly get up. Pomona joins Orange, and I join Portman. Abbot swings around our goal and out to the other side, but Pomona and Orange join forces and ram head onto Abbot. Orange takes the puck, and the two speed towards Lanzetti. There, Portman and I speed towards them ready to plow them head-on, playing our game of chicken. Our eyes lock with theirs. This is it. Now or never. Go for the kill. 

Then, as we nearly crash, Pomona and Orange duck down. Shit! We try to stop, but it's too late. We fall on their backs; they pick us up and send us flying across the ice, but not before I couple my skates together to grab Orange's neck with them and send him crashing down with us. We fall down heads first on the ice. Bosco takes the puck and passes it to Abbot. Pomona now eyes at Abbot. Wincing at the now-fallen Orange, the two quickly get up and speed towards the fat but fast wing. We gotta protect Abbot! We get up, but we can't catch up any faster. Pomona and Orange push Abbot towards the glass, and check him simultaneously, sending poor Abbot to the ice. Pomona takes the puck. Abbot stays down. Portman and I catch up to him and see that he's not getting up. The linesmen stops the play with the whistle and checks Abbot. 

"The hip! They hurt my hip!" Abbot speaks in one of those rare instances. 

We lower his pants a little to see the bruise just over his right thigh. It's bad, really bad. Pomona and Orange must have deliberately aimed for it, since their combined force would've been enough to injure him where it mattered. We didn't protect him. We're defensemen and _we didn't protect him!_ We failed. 

Bosco and Mednik come to our aid, knowing there is little they can do now. Conway also breaks away from his team and meets up with me. 

"You think he'll make it?" 

But I wasn't listening to the Spazzway. I steadily eye Pomona and Orange. I wanted to tear them apart now, so I skate towards them and face Orange. Orange steps up, looking as though he was ready. 

"I guess the daft little bugger came a cropper, eh?" Orange smiles acidly towards me. "What about you? Feeling a little buggered yourself, are you not? You are into that sort of thing, right?" 

With that, I throw down my gloves and stick as he does the same. I was furious. He was overjoyed. 

"Oh, so you do remember snogging your queer mate Portman at the Viper Room, don't you? I bet he sucked your knackers on the way home! Was it fun? Was it good?" 

I grab him by the neck and give the first knee kick in his stomach, but he pushes me away, sending me down, and pins me to the ice. With my face pressed against it, his fist hammers away, and the blood starts running. After three hits that felt like being hit with a dumbbell, my head gets out of the way, sending his fist to crack the ice below. 

Portman tries to get Orange, only to be pulled back by Pomona, who sends his fist into Portman's face, instantly sending him down. Shit, my bro needs help! He can't take the guy on his own. He needs me, but I have to get rid of Orange first. 

Taking advantage of my freed self, I pop up behind Orange's back, hold his head, and smash it against the ice repeatedly until I saw a trickle or two of blood coming out of his face. I lift him up, and he punches me in the face, and we give each other tons of lightning-fast jabs at each other to the enjoyment of the fans, which are reveling in the sight of crimson on the ice and on our faces. With these blows, he should go into heavyweight boxing; what the hell was he doing as an enforcer? He then pushes my face against the glass, in front of the spectators who see what $125 for front-seat tickets gets you, and hammers my head again. Gushes of crimson and red run down from my face and onto the glass. The spectators just gawk in complete surprise at the sight, but cheer on, indifferent to the ringing pain that this guy's fist were giving me. 

"C'mon, bro, fuck his ass!" 

With Portman's words rejuvenating me, I land an uppercut on Orange's jaw, which pushes him back a bit, getting me out of that bind. We look at each other steadily again, and I see that his face is now totally blue and red. I'm probably looking like a plum now. 

All of our teammates, as well as the Ducks are out of the benches and onto the ice, waiting to see what will happen, ignoring Abbot, who is now placed on a stretcher and carried out of the rink with help from Bosco and Mednik. 

Portman gets up to meet Pomona. He lets Pomona take a few swings, but Portman instead does the smart thing and dodges them. Portman then punches Pomona into the stomach again with all his might. It almost works, because Portman is now intimidating Pomona, pushing him away. Orange, however, was intimidating me and his airings were pushing me away from him. This continues until I touch Pomona by my back. Suddenly it's like the Viper Room all over again. 

_Duck down!_

Orange takes a swing towards me, but I duck down, with my butt facing the glass. Portman pushes Pomona over me as Orange topples over Pomona. 

_NOW, FULTON!_

I raise my hands to pry up Pomona and Orange's legs, yell an orgasm of pain and anguish as I raise my back, and propel the two in the air. Their bodies fly over me and shatter the glass, and the two enforcers crash violently onto the front-row seats and over their number one fans. The hard and patterned seats shatter every bone of their body. They stayed there. It was over. 

The Diamond Ducks are done for. 

We go to the broken glass and see the spectators scared shitless as the Orange and Pomona turn their heads towards our bloody faces. 

"Is that your best?" Pomona says as though they could still do better. 

Then Portman goes, "Well, to kinda quote St. Paul, 'If you think you're on the ball, then beware that you don't fall!'" 

"Don't bring St. Paul into this!" Orange retorts weakly. 

"Well, our state capital is named after him, so it does give him a little say." Finally! A good comeback, and even Dean liked it as we give a high five. 

But then one of the linesmen blows a whistle and orders us out of the game. Oh well. The two of us start heading back to our locker rooms, but not before Dean screams in excitement over the booing fans, raises his hands in victory. I'm so pumped right now, I can't help but hold his hand and do the same. We do our victory lap around the rink, knocking the glass hard and guffawing our way, giving chest butts and tight hugs to each other as we scream and scream to the top of our lungs! This was our night. The Bash Brothers have been vindicated! 

We enter the locker room with blood still fresh on our grinning faces. Our trainers help clean ourselves up as we undress and take count of our pulping wounds on our bodies. As the trainers help us, I relax my head over Portman's shoulder, laughing and giggling. They leave us two alone for a while, and Portman's hand finds its way under my bandana (which was still on me, by the way). It stayed there, tickling my scalp and brushing my long jet-black hair underneath. 

Then I see Bosco, who looks at us from across the locker room in this unusually keen way. He then shakes his head in disgust and goes, 

"Bad, bad work, Mr. Starbuck." 


	10. Farfetch'd

Farfetch'd 

I am doll parts, bad skin, doll heart. 

It stands for knife, for the rest of my life 

-Hole, "Doll Parts" 

*** 

Fulton

It's 5 A.M. I wake up in Minneapolis, in Portman's condo, in his bedroom, on his bed, sleeping next to him with nothing but our boxers on as I cradle his head against my cheeks. His violet bruises from our meet with the Diamond Ducks the night before are still fresh on his eternally infant face. His rhythmic snores form a coherent and pleasant lullaby that relaxes my soul and liquefies my muscles. I brush his hair with my nose and inhale the scent of sweat mixed with Herbal Essence shampoo that radiates from his curls. My only desire then and there was to hold him in my arms like this forever. Dean.... 

Dean.... 

It was then and there in Portman's bedroom that I spot my stepmother in her typically sluttish attire and holding a grocery bag, entering. She pulls out a drawer, spills Dean's clothing from it onto the floor and sifts through it, presumably looking for something. When done, she leaves the clothing and drawer on the floor and opens another one. She does this again and again until she's done with all of the drawers in the room and leaves to the living room. Curious about what the hell was she doing, I follow her. 

There, she does the same thing, this time, heading to Portman's huge stereo system and taking out CDs, tapes, and vinyl records, still as though she was looking for something. I catch up to her, and she spots me, staring blankly at the events. She speaks to me in this soft but cracking tone. 

"Boy, have you seen your daddy's money?" 

"What?" 

"Where's the money, boy? Your mother needs to buy some nice things to keep herself looking pretty." 

"You're not my mother." I said indignantly. 

"Oh, boy, don't you start with your attitude and help me find the money." 

"You'll need a lot more than what my Dad has to make yourself pretty." 

"Boy, don't you talk back! I have to take you to the bus stop, meet my manicurist in an hour, then to my hair dresser at 12, and do the grocery shopping for your daddy, and I don't have all day for your smart mouth." She now moves to the kitchen and searches through the cabinets, keeping her face focused on her treasure hunt. 

"That's a lot of work. Have you ever considered a mortician instead? One stop does it all!" 

"You just wait until your daddy wakes up!" 

"I'm just being thoughtful." Only in my dreams could I talk back to her. 

With a pan she just found, she comes to me, waves it at my face and nags, "You want me to wake up your daddy to get you the bucket?" 

Oh shit! _The bucket!_

The phone rang, but I didn't think of it. 

I started to back off from her. Then without a reason she brings the pan down and calls James and Hike to help her find the money. Surely enough, the two are already here, searching the vinyl records left at the foot of Dean's stereo. 

"Si-nay-tray?" James goes in his dumbass voice that so reminded me of Dwayne's. "It sounds like some gay shit!" 

"Hendrix? Is that like some sort of Japanese car?" Hike does his own thing by tearing the boxed sets and leafing through the booklets inside. "Heart? Led Zeppel_ine_? The Be-_at_-tles?" He laughs at the cover of _Please Please_ Me and says, "Look at the one with the goofy teeth!" 

"Boys, stop messing with Daddy's things and find that money!" My stepmother goes indifferently. 

"Wait, mom, there's more!" James then gets his hands on Dean's vinyl copy of _Cabaret_. Now they're messing with his Bob Fosse collection! (Only I know that Dean, violent enforcer and all-around tough guy, has a big thing for musicals!) "A musical?" It was how he said it, with an air of repugnance, which unnerved me. "I think we got a queer living in our house!" 

"It's _not_ your house!" I shout. 

"Hey, mom, why don't we go to the big city and sell all this pansy shit? Maybe we can get some money for your manicure!" 

"That's a good idea, boy!" With that, James and Hike find a suitcase and stuff the records inside. I try to stop them by holding back their hands, saying, "Get your hands off Dean's records!" 

"Forget it, pansy! We need the money, and if Dad has a problem with it, he can always put you in the bucket." Hike says as he pulls me off of James. 

"C'mon! I'll be late for my manicure!" My stepmother screeches. Hike finally pulls me away from James and flings me to the other side of the living room. All three of them hastily leave, leaving me on the floor. My nerves rattle at the thought of what my Dad, I mean, Dean will do to me when he sees that his treasured records are missing. 

But it's too late. Dad comes from the bedroom and sees the mess of silverware and records on the floor. 

_"BOY!"_

His voice freezes my spine. He looks straight into my scared eyes. The fear communicates to me quickly. I push myself to a corner, away from his steps, but he goes to me and picks me up by the ear. He pulls me to the kitchen and throws me down against the stove and runs to the bathroom. I had to get out, so I run to the door, but it's locked. I go to the balcony, but where would I go from there? I can't hide under anything because I'm too big, so I go to the closet and close the door behind me, hoping that he won't find me. 

Unfortunately, that doesn't work, for he finds me quickly. In his hand is the big bucket. Behind him is Jonathan Bosco in his Wild gear. 

"There's my son the queer. Shame, shame, _shame_ on me!" Dad says with an evil grin. 

Bosco just stood there shaking his head and saying, "Bad, bad work, Mr. Starbuck." 

The two crouch down towards me. Bosco holds the bucket tightly with his two hands as my dad grabs my head by the hair and submerges it inside.... 

...The ocean's so cold today.... 

...And now I'm in this light blue tiled pool, sinking rapidly to the bottom of it. Just when the blue water starts entering in my lungs, the Portman of My Dreams jumps into the pool and grabs me before I sink to my untimely death. He pulls me up to the surface of the pool and brings me over the edge and props me on the floor. He presses his lips against mine and exhales into me. The water then coughs up, and I wake up to the see that I'm in this Roman spa, with old guys in togas and the whole bit, and the Portman of My Dreams helps me up by holding both of my hands and giving me a warm smile. There, in plain view of the old and horny men, we kiss, but something inside of me told me that I had to be elsewhere, so I broke the kiss off. He didn't seem to mind, but I went on. I didn't know where I had to go, though. I just knew I had to go there right now before it was too late. 

Away from the pool with Roman columns, I go down this hall tiled with blue all over and head to this shower room. All of the showers were on and spewed hot water and steam. I look around and see these two men who hold up this white cloth. On the cloth is a silhouette of a short man who sits down on a stool on the other side of the cloth. Near the cloth on my side is a stool for myself, so I sit on it. 

"My son, you need refreshment." From his weak and aged voice, I instantly recognized it was some sort of priest. 

I bow my head and go, "I'm in pain, and I need your guidance. You're my last hope. What's wrong with me?" 

"You have committed a grave sin, my son. It is my hope that you will confess it to me for the salvation of you and your home." 

"I confess to nothing. I never did anything, and I'm not your son." 

"Do not be foolish, my son. Abstain from the desires of the flesh." 

"I have nothing to abstain from." Now I was growing annoyed as well as disillusioned by his advice. 

"That is because you do not understand what you must abstain from." 

I had a big hunch it had something to do with me loving Portman, a guy. I didn't want him to say it, that loving Portman was evil, but I knew it would come to that. 

"I love Dean. I haven't hurt anyone by loving him, have I?" 

"Then what of those men that you attacked two nights before?" 

"They attacked _us_! I was defending Dean! When someone needs my protection, I have to come to defend him or her. It's my job!" 

"Then you find what you do gratifying and fulfilling." 

Now really annoyed, I retort, "It's not gratifying! I don't like it, but I do it because... it's the only thing I know how to do. Wouldn't you do the same if you had someone you loved? Oh wait; you don't have one, because you can't have one! Well, mister, I have my love, Dean Portman, and I will defend Dean to the death because I care for him." 

Disappointed, the priest behind the cloth sighs and says, "Then I have no choice but to leave you to the whims of the flesh. Here, then." The man's hand reaches over the cloth and hands me these two green leeks. "Take these, my son. May they serve you well." 

Just then, the two men wrap the cloth around him and, like a magic trick, the cloth collapses over him and he disappears as the cloth lands flat on the floor. The steam of the showers soon overwhelms me as I stand in Portman's shower with my boxers still on. I turn off the water, dry myself, and leave the bathroom and into the living room. 

Look at that. Everything's fine and clean. 

I run into Portman's room and see that all the drawers are back in their place. The clock now reads 6:30. Everything's fine except for one crucial detail: Portman's gone. 

I lost him. 

Portman

Shit! I'm in deep shit! I forgot all about Amber! I hope Fulton got the message on the machine! 

Dang! After having a great night with Fulton holding me in his arms, Amber calls me in the morning to tell me how many more things must be taken care of for the wedding. The ring on my finger was unusually tight, and I didn't like it like that. 

The weird thing was that I felt dirty. Sleeping with Fulton and then sleeping with her wasn't fair for either of them. Fulton already knows about me and Amber, but Amber doesn't know a thing about us. Confusion and panic ran over me as I picked up the phone, after a tough struggle to free myself from Fulton's huge arms (mostly because I didn't want to). 

"Amber!" 

"Sweetie, it's six o'clock! We've got a lot of planning to do, and you promised me that we'd take care of the dress the minute you got home from your road trip." That voice wasn't as angelic as her usual. 

"Babe! I'm so sorry, but I have practice today!" 

"You're been suspended for two games! How can you go to practice?" 

"Amber, that's how things are. You get suspended, but you show up for practice anyway." 

"And I was trying to call you, but you never even answered your cell phone!" 

"The cell? Oh, shit! I left the phone at my place the whole time! I was in a big rush!" That was no save. I forgot to take the cell phone on this road trip. 

"Then why didn't you call me?" 

"Babe, I'm really sorry, but you know how it is! I have games, commercials, and interviews to do! Plus, I need the time to relax. Hockey's a busy sport." 

She stays silent for a minute, then she goes, "Portman, are you seeing someone else?" 

That really mixed me up. I didn't know what to do. Should I tell her? Then she'd be crushed. What if she also rats on us? That'd ruin us! But I didn't want to lie to her, too. I am seeing someone else, and he just happens to be my best friend and fellow teammate. Nervous, I joke what she said with a chuckle and then, "No babe! I'm in love with you, and there's no one else." 

"Are you sure about that?" 

To be honest, I'm not sure about anything right now. All I know is that I love Fulton, but I _kinda_ love Amber, too. "Babe, I'm sure about it. I'm just tired. It's been a long trip, that's all." 

To make matters worse, she adds, "Well, why don't you come to my place and sleep over until it's time to go to practice." 

Uh-oh. I know what that means. She wants my sex. The worst thing is that I felt up for it, but the feeling was mixed. The boner was there, but my heart wasn't. Trying to refuse, I go, "At this time, in the morning?" 

"But I _miss_ you!" 

Dammit! She's getting all puppy-faced! I now feel _obligated_ to make her happy! Maybe I could just go to her place, give her a good fuck, and get it over with. Or maybe I could just outright tell her. My heart's with Fulton Reed. _I love Fulton Reed to death!_ Just that line moving across my lips feels like taking a load off! 

"Okay." 

You're weak, Portman. That's your problem. _You're too fucking weak!_

"Great!" Now her mood becomes cheerful and happy all of a sudden. "I'll get the coffee ready. Bye!" 

I hang up the phone, get dressed, leave Fulton on my bed, and head downstairs and straight to the Porsche. My only purpose right now was to get her out of the way so that at least she'd be happy with me for the rest of the day. 

And that's what I set out to do. I'm going to please her and please her right, because Dean Portman never leaves a girl disappointed, right? I speed the Porsche to her place, which is already set up for our quickie, coffee, candles, and all. Without even thinking about it, I take her in my arms and rip off her clothing like some animal, which sends Amber into her orgasmic swoons. Right on her kitchen table, well, I fuck her. 

_Oh no! What have I done?_

*** Author's Note: Judging from the low number of reviews from my last venture, I'm thinking that you probably weren't impressed by my last chapter. This one will probably be just as disappointing, since this one came out in a rush. Hopefully, I'll do better next time. Hey, Cake Eater, how was that engagement with "The Hobbit"? 


	11. Fulton and Duke

Fulton and Duke 

Underneath the bridge 

The tarp has sprung a leak 

And the animals I've trapped 

Have all become my pets 

And I'm living off of grass 

And the drippings from the ceiling 

It's okay to eat fish 

'Cause they don't have any feelings 

-Nirvana, "Something In The Way" 

*** 

Fulton

The old house is so cold now. Winter is coming early this year, and Dean and I were feeling it. Snowflakes come down in front of our window. The fireplace warms the old and creaking living room. Dean and I keep ourselves warm by hiding under some old blankets and caressing each other, leaching off each other's body heat. It works well, but a draft of cold air still touches us by surprise every minute or so. Our eyes are glued to the fire's light dances, but our minds are seeing something else. 

Dean's usual smile gave way to this deadpan depression that wasn't his custom. There's no doubt that Amber is on his mind, but how he's thinking of her, I don't know. 

"Dude, what'll I do with her?" Dean finally breaks the silence with this low and sad voice. 

"You could always hire a professional assassin. It's in vogue now." I said. I'm trying to be sarcastic and witty, but Dean doesn't look impressed. 

"Bro, that's your solution to everything." 

"But it works." 

"Who said it did?" 

"I do. I can call the president. He'll vouch for me." 

Dean then comes over me with this weak smile. "Bro, I'm not hiring a guy." 

"Then can I do it? It'll be for free, like those samples you eat at Costco. It's a good deal, bro." 

"Dude, you're not killing _anyone_." His effort to not smile at that is failing. 

I sigh with a small whimper. Then I blurt out, "What about me? Can I kill myself?" 

Dean backs down again. "_Anyone_ includes _you_. Sorry." But suddenly taking it seriously, he asks, "Do you think about that? I mean, suicide and all?" 

I was unnerved by the question, though I didn't feel surprised that it came. It was as if I was expecting him to ask that. 

"Yeah, sometimes." 

"What do you mean sometimes?" 

I take another big sigh as I ready myself to spill my guts out to the man I love, even though, to be honest, there really wasn't much to spill. 

"I remember the first time I seriously though about it." I slowly take out my wallet and show Dean this small wallet photo of me at six years of age, hugging this pit bull. I guess Dean found it cute that I was (1) smiling in my youth and (2) hugging a naturally mean ass dog. 

"His name was Duke." I go. "That's what I called him. We were a team; Duke and I were a team, and I loved him. We were always together, eating the same leftovers, playing catch, or, as I now think of it, being the school policemen. One day, Duke and I walked to school, and I saw these three mean kids beating up this little guy. I didn't think they had a reason, other than they just wanted to beat the living crap out of the poor, defenseless guy. So, I go up to them and say, 'Get your filthy hands off of him!' They turn around with this scared look in their eyes. Duke was already growling and showing off his teeth, ready to bite into their flesh. With a simple point of a finger, I order Duke to get them. The three run off, but they were too slow for Duke's speed. Duke then caught one of them by the leg. He fell, and Duke started gnawing at his face. The guy was screaming for help, but I didn't respond, because, and I'm going to be sorry for what I'm about to say but, I liked it. I liked it, because he deserved it. I was enjoying every second of Duke biting into his face. His friends kept running away, not wanting to help him. Some others tried to pull Duke away, but his jaw was locked onto his face. Then, after a minute or two, I saw a tear coming out of the guy's eye. That's when I felt his pain, too. I order Duke away, and Duke comes to me as though nothing had happened. 

"Soon enough, Dad got wind of what happened, and he took me and Duke back here. He sat me down on this couch," and now I'm starting to sob, "grabbed his shotgun and BOOM!" 

Dean and I both jump as we figure out the tragic conclusion of this story by ourselves. 

I continue, "When he was done, he dumped Duke into the river. I was left to clean his mess. For a long time, I wanted to throw myself into the river, just to be with Duke again." 

"Whoa, bro, that really sucks." Dean now hugs me tighter than before. Actually, I don't remember a time when Dean held me this tightly. He brushes my hair as I finish. 

"I cried and I cried that day. Later, Dad told me something that would make me hate him for the rest of his life. You know what it was?" 

Dean mulls a 'no' through my hair. 

"He said, 'Boy, stop your crying, 'cause you're never gonna be a man if you cry like some girl! A man doesn't cry!'" 

"If I was there, I swear I'd slit his throat and see if he thinks I'm man enough for him!" 

I go on, "So I cried and I cried and I cried... until one day, I just stopped crying. I don't know how that came about. Maybe I was just tired, but I knew that was the first time I didn't feel anything. I suddenly became this cold and distant kid. I kept it to myself all the time. I didn't want to do anything or have anything. I was indifferent to how my so-called family treated me." 

"But you feel something for me, don't you babe?" 

"Yeah, bro. Being in the Ducks helped a lot, but when I met you, even when we first met, we clicked, and I felt something for you. At first it wasn't love, yeah, but it was at least something. I haven't had feelings for someone or something in a long time, and that's saying a lot." 

Dean gives a tender kiss on my cheek, and goes, "I totally have something for you. I always did, and I always will. Together, we can make totally new memories, and we'll have fun like always. Then, you'll forget all this crap about your family. We'll make our own, have babies, but not from me! I heard about these doctors that can take your sperm and put it into a woman so that she can make the baby. Isn't that cool?" 

Realizing that the mood lightened up a little, I go, "Uhm, no, I think I'll spare my awesome powers of masturbation and adopt, thank you." 

Dean and I both had a good laugh at that one. Then Dean pulls our wine bottle from the side and takes a drink. I snatch it from his hands and sip as well. Dean moves the bottle to expose his juicy, tender, and noticeably red eyes. Man, I can't resist them, so I kiss his lips, and we're now locked into a little tongue war in our mouths. I finally let go of his lips with smiles on both of our faces. 

"You know what my dad wanted me to be when I grew up?" 

Dean shakes his head again. 

"He wanted me to go to the army and be a sniper." 

Dean shoots a drunken snicker and says, "I guess he trained you pretty well! You know what I always wanted to be when I was a kid? A hockey player! Hockey was in my blood, plus I loved knocking little kids off the ice! I guess it's not cool now, but when you look back," he then giggles uncontrollably. When it comes to giggles, Dean Portman was king. 

Then he asks, "What did you want to be when you grew up?" 

With that, I open my mouth with a smile to reveal another shocking detail about the life of Fulton Reed, the Noble Duck and Black Scoter of Hockey. 

"I wanted to be a golfer." 

*** 

Author's Note: I'm so very sorry for this injustice of a short chapter. I've been having these pains on my arms of late, and I think it's carpal tunnel syndrome. I'm trying to lay off from the computer until I do something about it. Don't worry. There's plenty more to come, and I will get to it without fail. Promise! 


	12. The Bash is Back

The Bash Is Back 

Time, time, time, time 

Never ask what's become of us 

Just dedicate your sorrow 

Here and now 

-Heart, "Soul of the Sea" 

*** 

Fulton

I got a letter from my dad today. Like I normally do, I throw it away. 

Portman

Mid-November comes and so do the damn snowstorms, but nobody seemed to care, because the crowds and fans are really coming back, and everybody's saying that it's all because of our improving performance on the ice. That should stop our owner's bitching for a while. The thought of having the Bash Brothers split up for politics makes me want to break something, because politics is gross. 

Tonight's game is with the San Jose Sharks. It's coming along great, but these guys are real pricks. All night, they've been taking cheap shots at our wings and at Bosco. We make up for it by smashing every Shark that even lightly gets the puck. For each check by me, Fulton, or both, the fans shout a big, loud "BASH" to congratulate us, like in those bullfights, where after the bullfighter makes the bull go through the red cape, the crowd goes, "OLE!" Well, ole to this! It's another check to a slippery Shark by yours truly. I take the puck and send it to Fulton, who's clear for a shot. He then stops at the goal, sends his Death Glare (trademark pending) to the goalie, and raises his stick.... 

"He's gonna do it!" I shout. The whole arena gasps and takes cover. When Fulton is about to do his slap shot, I get the hell out of the way and get myself against the side of the rink. Those shots of his really leave a lasting impression on you! 

Fulton takes the shot. The puck flies over the ice and speeds towards the scared-shitless goalie. The goalie doesn't even take the chance, screams for his life, and ducks to make way for the puck. The puck cuts right through the net, and the goal is scored! Everyone, including his fellow Bash Bro, huddles around Fulton to congratulate him. I take off his helmet and kiss his forehead. I just hope no one makes a big deal about an innocent, friendly, congratulatory kiss on the forehead, right? 

And that was the only goal made that night, giving us our win. I can see the headlines tomorrow: THE BASH IS BACK! 

So everyone undresses for the night. Polanski gives his little talk about the women he's been fucking around with, and I go into my stereotypical Reverend mode, doing the whole bit by waving my arms into the air, giving this big, super-dramatic speech on women and how they can be a bad thing and shit like that, and shouting things like "PRAISE THE LORD!" and "AMEN, MY BROTHER!" When I say that, the rest of the locker room joins in and chants with me. Then I bust out with this gospel song, and everyone tries to sing along. 

I then go to where Fulton is, grab his shoulders, and shake him as I order, "PRAISE THE LORD, MY BROTHER!" 

Fulton looked a little uneasy about what I just said, but after I grin madly to him, he grabs my shoulders and says, "I'M GETTING TO THAT PART!" We give a big chest butt and I go off to my gospel singing. 

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAMEN!" 

"In the mornin'!" 

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAMEN!" 

"And later in the evenin'!" 

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAMEN! AMEN! AMEN!..." 

So now I'm in my red hot Porsche with Fulton right next to me. 

"What was up with that Southern Baptist revival in there?" Fulton goes dryly. 

"Just trying to save your soul, sweet cheeks." I pinch his blushing cheeks. 

"My soul's fine. It's yours that needs to be saved." Fulton says it with this sarcastic tone that always turns me on. 

"Then save me, Fulton! Save my sinning soul!" 

"Would you like me to save it now or when we get home?" He pats my head like the dog that I am and plays with my curls. 

"Save me now! I want a religious experience!" 

"Well, pay me my tithe to support my holy crusade of saving lost sheep and screwing Playboy mistresses behind your back, or no salvation!" 

Then, to pay him, I viciously attack Fulton with kisses all over his face. Suddenly, my cell phone rings. On the caller ID, it says Amber. 

"Aren't you going to answer it, reverend?" Fulton suddenly sounds annoyed, and with a good reason, too. 

"Damn, bro! How am I gonna get rid of her?" I tell Fulton softly as I turn the cell phone off. 

"Tell her you have a thing for leather. It _usually_ works." 

"She likes leather." 

"Okay, then tell her you're into polyester. Girls hate polyester." 

"And just how the hell do you know girls hate polyester?" 

"Television, my dear. Television." 

"Dude, what else could I do?" 

"Or you could just straight out tell her. You rushed yourself into this engagement way too quickly, and you don't like her anymore. You two have totally different careers that have totally different demands that can hinder your marriage. There's no way those demands can be reasonably overcome." 

I relax my head on the steering wheel and mull all of that. It sounds pretty simple, coming from Fulton, but I don't know. That would mean that I'm totally committed to Fulton. Girls would be out of the question forevermore. 

"I don't know if I could tell her, bro." Fear is something I'm not really used to, so you can imagine my body shaking a little. Maybe it's because it's snowing right now. I turn on the car and the air conditioning to send some warm air inside. 

Fulton just plops against his seat, shakes his head and goes, "Since when did you need air conditioning to warm up your car?" 

Hm. Fulton has a point. 

Then he comes over me and wraps his arm around my shoulders. "Let me warm you up." Our eyes match again. Assurance is back in me. I turn off the car, and hop in the back seat. 

Fulton

I love these snowstorms. It gives us the perfect opportunity for the two of us to cuddle up to keep us warm. I hold Dean in my arms as we give kisses (fully clothed, since it's cold as hell) and just talk about us and the whole Amber situation. Man, to think that we'll have plenty more of these moments in the future without the guilt would be so cool. Then we talked about marriage, having children and bashing the brains out of anyone who makes fun of them, our stints in Pee-Wee hockey, and about what I want to do with the old house in Stillwater, provided I find the paperwork, wherever it might be. 

"That's where we're going to live. [Kiss] We'll raise kids, [kiss] retire early if we can, [kiss], get a civil union [kiss].... Why don't we go to Hawaii, when we get the chance? [Kiss] We can get together and make it legal. [Kiss] How about it, bro?" I haven't shown hope in the future like that since we were signed into the Minnesota Wild. 

After reviewing all that I told him, he mulls over it, then gives me a quick kiss, and goes with a smile, "You're the man with the plan, Fult." 

It's now 1:30. Damn, I can't believe we stayed that long in the car. Portman finally breaks free from me to turn on his Porsche and drive through the snow-blanketed streets of Minneapolis to our apartments. Actually, when we arrive, I follow Portman to his apartment, holding on to him with our pinkies. He opens the door and turns on the light. 

Oh no. Amber's here, waiting on the easy chair in front of the glowing but silent television, tuned to some modeling exhibition. Oh shit! Our pinkies are still together. Portman lets go, then turns from me. 

"You're late." Uh-oh. She sounds pissed. 

"Uh, sorry babe, but I got caught up with some of the guys. I didn't know it got so late!" Portman was totally vexed about the whole situation, but managed to ignore her face as he hanged his jacket in the coat closet. I take a seat opposite Amber on the loveseat, casting my doom-and-gloom over the room. 

"You missed yet another dull showing from Armani's winter line." Amber goes as Portman now moves to the kitchen to get a bite. "More tacky shoes, more 'experimental' mixing and mismatching, and more crack junkies on the runway. This has to be one of the stupidest shows ever." 

Portman and I try our best to ignore her as I sit down and Portman makes himself a sandwich. Under my breath, I say to her, "Yeah, because you're not strutting your meat with those crack junkies." It's true: Armani turned her down to be part of the show. 

"And then there are the obviously clueless reviewers, who keep asking to each other like the dodos that they are, 'Why did Armani do this to himself?' The reason why they can't answer it is because those stupid reviewers are asking the wrong question. Given what he is, they should ask, 'Why doesn't he do it more often?' Who the hell wears pink in the winter anyway? He's losing his touch fast." 

Portman also prepares some coffee for us. He takes a deep sigh and says somewhat timidly, "Amber, we need to talk." 

Amber ignores him and continues her rant. "I haven't seen the T.V. since forever. Just look at all this crap on it! Jerry Springer! South Park! Did you know that I just spotted an infomercial for Phen-Fen on Channel 48? I thought that stuff was illegal now! But you know who are the worst? It's those stupid religious guys on Channel 40, who say that if you put in so and so much of money, you'll be so and so closer to God." 

"That's real estate for you." I go with a cynical grin. 

Portman finishes preparing his sandwich and goes with a more serious and sure tone, "Babe, I don't want to hear your commentary on God and fashion tonight, okay?" 

Amber finally gets up, sends a glance of disgust to me, and walks to Portman to attack him with a caress of his lean waist. She's touching my man! I give this exasperated sigh of disgust, saying below my breath, "Ugh." Oh crap, I'm turning into a bitch just like Amber! Any minute now, and I'll probably have a mud-wrestling match with her or, worse yet, see which lipstick goes better with my black rain jacket, red or red. Stop it, Fulton. You're a man, and you know it. Keep cool. Yeah, Fulton, keep cool. 

"Where were you, Portman? I mean it." Her hug looks unusually tight. "You've been acting all nervous around me lately." 

"Amber, I can't take this anymore." Portman takes a bite of his sandwich, but I could tell he was having problems swallowing it. 

"Take what anymore? Me? You can just say so." 

"No, it's not you! I just think that we're rushing this wedding thing too fast." You said it, Bro. Thanks. 

"Well, we can always go slower." 

"We can't take it any slower. I mean, you have your thing in Paris and New York, and I have my thing here and all over the country. We live totally different lives. It's just not going to work." 

"Then we'll just have to make some changes." 

Portman looked shocked when he heard that. "Like what? Give up hockey? I can't do that! I love hockey; plus I'm under contract! I can't just quit like that!" 

"Well, I can't give up my obligations with Revlon and Victoria's Secret, either! I'm already having big things for me. Versace, Yves St Laurent, I can't give this up now!" 

"Oh, you know what, babe? I'm suffocating with this relationship. I want out." Portman tries to pull off his engagement ring. 

Amber calms down a little, and holds Portman's hand to stop him, moving her face over her neck. "We can work something out. It's not that bad." Then, out of nowhere, she shrills the entire room with her voice. "Did someone kiss you tonight?" 

Portman violently reacts to that and pushes her away, replying her question with a quick and scared, "No!" 

Amber doesn't buy it. "Oh yes you have! I can see that big plum hickey on your neck!" I gave him that while we were in his Porsche. Oops. 

Portman is getting both defensive and submissive as he again replies, "No it's not!" 

"You've been with someone!" 

_"Stop accusing me!"_ Portman goes to the corner of the kitchen and turns away from Amber in shame. 

"You can't fool me, Dean Portman! See, you're blushing!" 

"Leave me alone!" 

"What the hell's wrong with you!? You just have to slither around my back just to say that it's over?" Amber's voice is now at an all-time high, shrieking with anger. 

"He said to back off, you fucking bitch!" Uh-oh. Did I just say that? 

I guess I did, because the next thing I know, she snaps to me and goes, "Oh-ho, don't get me started on you, impotent! I have the dirt on you!" 

Oh, calm down, Fulton. She's a girl, so don't hit her. 

"Don't say that about my friend!" Dean musters up the courage to defend me. "Fult, let me take care of this." To not embarrass him any further, I wait at the living room. 

Amber now goes back to Dean and says with absolute repulsion in her tone, "So, you met someone else, didn't you?" 

"Yes, Amber. I met someone else that's better than you and more beautiful than you, and has a little more class than you, that's all!" 

"Then why didn't you tell me? Why did you have to make an ass out of me!?" 

"I'm sorry, I swear! But, you knew it was going to end sooner or later!" 

"Who is it? Was it one of your die-hard fans, or some whore that you just picked up on the street? What's her name?" 

"Why should you care? I just met someone; that's all you need to know!" 

"I want to know! What's her damn name!? Where did you meet her?" 

"I want you out, okay? It's 2:30 in the morning!" 

"I can't! I need you badly! I'm growing old, and I need you!" 

"You need _someone_; you don't need me, and I don't want you!" 

"Oh!" 

"And what do you get out of me anyway? Good sex, and that's it? I'm growing old, too. I'm not as smart as you, or as fashionable as you! You're better than me in every way-" 

Then she gives Dean a slap that I could hear from the living room, where I watched their display in the darkness. Dean falls and breaks down. I immediately come to Dean's aid. 

"Don't you _dare_ patronize me, after what you did!" She in part goes to the kitchen counter and relaxes against it. I come down to Dean and wipe his tears, telling him it's going to be okay as I brush his soft face with my hand. 

I turn to Amber and order her to leave, but then she gives us this bewildering glance. She looked totally odd as she kept staring at me cleaning up Dean. 

"Oh my God." She speaks softly as she backs away, as though she has seen a ghost. At that point, I realized she caught on. "Oh my God. It all makes sense now. Fulton can't fuck girls. Portman comes home with him and that hickey. I should've known. I can't believe I didn't see it before." 

Now I was scared of her, as she starts shrieking again. "I can't believe I was about to marry a _faggot_!" She said that last word in a shrilling, glass-shattering, venomous tone that sent a chill down my spine. I was never called a faggot, or any gay name, before. She immediately goes to the living room, gets her purse, and cries as she runs for the door, slamming it shut. 

Dean and I are alone again, this time, crouched down with him on the kitchen floor. It's a surreal sight to see Dean cry. As I wrapped my arms around him, telling him he did the right thing, I couldn't help but join him along. 


	13. Dean of the Reeds

Dean of the Reeds 

Feels like I might start to fistfight 

when I lose control 

I sleep right all night 

say I won't bite 

but that never holds 

-Dealership, "I Start To Explode" 

*** 

Fulton

It's been a long time since I could hear Dean's snore without any guilt. 

I'm usually the first one to wake up, though not this early. I lie in Dean's arms in his bed and listen to him snore away his troubles in his nearly lifeless state. Soon enough, sunrise will fill the room with gold and orange hues, and another grueling day of practice will come upon us. Being a cold night, we opted not to undress, but my hand found its way under his shirt, rubbing his chest. His only responses were those rhythmic and low snores that form the strangely soothing melody. It's been quite a while since I was this satisfied. 

Yet, my consternation never subsides. Did Dean really mean that he'd do all of that for me, or was he just nodding his head in indifference? Will nothing come between us ever again? Permanence was never Dean's strong suit, so I had a good reason to worry. 

As if that wasn't enough, there was another thing that was running through the back of my head (other than Dean's fingers). He didn't take that split-up last night with Amber too well. Maybe it was speculation, but I don't think he takes accusations too well. Then I remember back to when we were seniors in high school. There was this one incident where this water polo kid named Harvey Yost was beaten up by some football jocks of our year. From what I was later told, it looked as though it was all planned out. These guys wanted payback because they learned (or so they thought they learned) that Yost crashed his car into one of the jocks' brand-new Chevy Malibu, outside school grounds. What they did was that, that very night, the three jocks hid in his dorm room, wearing ski masks and wearing all black to blend themselves into the darkness. When the guy came in, the three attacked him violently, only to see that, upon turning on the light, it wasn't Yost! They taped his mouth and kept waiting. When their actual target came in, they outdid themselves with an even more violent attack. After they were done, the three left through the door like nothing. It was only through a miracle that, an hour later, Portman and I came in to see Yost about some project we had to do together. Surely enough, there they were: The two of them on the floor, bruised at the stomach and face, and bleeding. Portman called for help, and I stayed to assist their injuries. The two were rushed to the hospital, but we didn't come along. 

It was there that Yost told Dean Buckley (remember him?) about the car accident, the beating, and the two hooded assailants. The first suspect was, of course, James Harwood, the star linebacker who owned the now-totaled car. The problem was that the dean always took sides with the football team, so when Harwood told (actually made up in front of) Buckley he heard some rumors that it was, oh, I don't know, us, Buckley quickly bought it and came slamming his fist on the door of our dorm the next morning, with no less than four security guards. 

"Reed!? Portman!? Open the damn door!" 

Groggily, I pry my eyes and yawn at the blast of his muffled voice. "What now?" I mumbled. 

"Open the door! You're in serious trouble, mister, the both of you!" Buckley was never the one for colorful language. 

"What? Is it about that damn mess on the cafeteria floor yesterday? I swear I didn't know Averman can laugh _that_ hard." 

After I finally stood up, while Portman was still snoring away, the door becomes unlocked, and the four officers swarm in the room as though water broke out of a dam. Like nothing, they grabbed my arms and handcuffed me. "Wait, what's going on?" Then, while Portman was still sleeping, another guard cuffed his hands. Realizing that he was cuffed, Portman wakes up by muttering, "Oh, Fult, aren't you the naughty one!" But then, as he opened his eyes, he saw that this was no porn flick. He was really being arrested, and they certainly weren't interested in giving "punishment" to Portman. "What the fuck!?" But it was too late. We were escorted (better yet, paraded) in our sleeping wear down the hall. Of course, all the Ducks were there, but they were just as confused as we were. 

It was there, in the presence of the four gargantuan security guards, that Buckley told us about what Harwood said. At this, Portman immediately cried, "No fuckin' way!" and stood up in frustration, only to be pushed back to his seat by the admittedly stronger guards. 

"I did not have anything to do with that, Dean!" Portman went. Somehow, I could foresee where more confusion would come. 

"Then why did Harwood tell me otherwise, Dean?" 

Without a concrete answer, Portman winged it by saying, "I don't know.-- What the fuck would I know!?" 

"I don't know, Dean, and that's why I'm asking you!" 

"I don't know, either, Dean!" 

"And I don't believe you! I happen to know Harwood very closely, and he would never lie about such a serious matter!" 

"And what if he was lying!? I'm not! I was with my friends the whole night, Dean, the whole night!" 

"Who are these friends, so that we can bring them here?" 

"Uh, they were all in Guy's room. We were with Guy that night. Fulton, Averman, Moreau, uh, Goldberg, and that was it, I swear!" 

Then, as Buckley ordered one of the guards to find the other four Ducks, one of Harwood's friends, Garey Alton, came in the room with this nasty grin. 

"Look at what we found in the Bash Brothers' room!" He plopped down a black ski mask on the Dean's table. Buckley's eyes were as big with shock as one could ever imagine them to be. Portman and I were confused at seeing the mask. 

Then Buckley addressed us in this stern but calm manner as he held up the mask, "Is this yours?" 

"No!" Portman answers sulkily, "I never had one of those things! Fulton?" 

"He's right. It's neither his nor mine. Sorry to disappoint your finger pointing." I retorted back. 

"Don't play around with me! You're looking at expulsion for your deeds!" 

"What!?" Portman slams his fists on the desk and gets up in frustration. He brushes the sweat off his brow and goes to Buckley, "I can't be expelled! We came to Yost's room because we had this report to do, and we found the door open, and there they were, on the floor, all banged up! We found them like that, and we didn't do anything to them except I called for help and Fulton stayed to help them out! But please don't expel us! There are scouts out there wanting us, and this whole mess will kill us! I don't know about that ski mask or whatever the hell it means. I swear it's the honest-to-God truth!" 

Our dean ran his hand through his hair in frustration along with my Dean. 

I then ask, "Did Yost tell you who actually beat them up?" 

"What does it matter to you? You want to know if he told us you did it, so that you can further your vengeance." 

"No," I said as cool as I could, "why would I or Portman have something against Yost? All we have that binds us is this report that we're supposed to work on." 

Seeing that Buckley had little else to work with, he asks, "Well, were there problems with this report?" 

"No, everything was fine." 

Suddenly, Buckley gave this puzzling look. "Yost told me about a car accident with Harwood. You know anything about that?" 

Portman and I looked at each other with a look that was just as puzzling. He sits down and says, "No, we don't. This is the first." 

Buckley just sighs at that. 

Then I go, "Sir, if that is the case, about this car accident with Harwood, then wouldn't it make more sense that Harwood would've done something about it? He could've sued Yost or he could've beaten him up, give or take. And, sir, it's not our car that was totaled because I don't own a car and neither does Portman, much less own a totaled car, so we wouldn't have a gripe with Yost." 

After hearing that, Buckley seemed to hit with reason. Still he asks, "Then what was that ski mask doing in your dorm?" 

"What does the ski mask have to do with this?" I ask before Portman starts up again. 

"Yost and his friend said the three men were wearing ski masks." 

Then I look at the man who brought the ski mask in, Alton. Of course, it was planted there! 

But why did they want to pin it on us, or how I would convince Buckley that it wasn't us, I didn't know. Fortunately, the Ducks finally came and told them their side of the story. Fortunately, Buckley trusted their word, so after a tense while we were finally out of the office. Once outside, I embraced Portman, who was quivering a little. The thought of getting expelled and having his future as a hockey player ruined was, and I bet still is, devastating to him. 

(We did eventually figure out what happened. Harwood's dorm was checked, and the other two masks were found clumsily on the floor by the Dean. Long-story-short, Harwood, Alton, and another guy, Bryan Temple, were expelled. Last time I heard, Temple was in the semi-pros but had an alcohol problem, Alton was convicted of statutory rape, and Harwood was doing gay porno flicks, of which Dean and I just happened to stumble upon in our later years!) 

It was how Portman handled that situation that made it so disturbingly memorable. It was so... un-Portman-like. 

Portman

Uh-oh, it's 6 A.M. Time to wake up to the sunshine, but Fulton's snoring away with his hand under my shirt. I get out of bed and let Fulton sleep away his worries. I was going to make him some breakfast, as a little token of thanks to my best friend, boyfriend, and, maybe, maybe, maybe, future husband. 

Damn, I wish I didn't have to say all those maybes. 

I better hurry up. Today we have to go to the gym, and then it's time for hockey practice, so we have to eat right and start the day with sunshine on our faces. I do the whole bit: Bacon, eggs, some pancakes, O.J., and hash browns, just the way Portman does 'em and Fulton loves 'em! 

It's only a matter of time that the smell of Canadian bacon floats to my bedroom and into Fulton's nose. As I prepare our dishes and clean up the table for the two of us (which just means to swipe my arm to push the crap on it onto the floor), Fulton comes in his cool but groggy mood. He cleans his eyes and takes off his bandana. 

"You made breakfast? Kick-ass." 

"C'mon, bro, the stars are waiting for us today!" 

I go to clean my hands in the sink, when I realize that I still had my engagement ring on. I try to take it off, but it's too tight. I use some soap, but that doesn't work, either. Then Fulton comes to caress me, and sees my dilemma as he kisses me on my neck. 

"Hey, bro, you need help with that?" 

"It's all yours." 

"No, you push it, and I pull it. We'll get more force that way." 

And that's what we did. In no time flat, the ring came off. Then, I took the ring and threw it in the kitchen sink, letting it fall into the plumbing. 

"Dude, I could've gotten a refund." 

"Trust me, it's not worth the refund." 

I kiss him on the lips, but then Fulton stops and says, "Morning breath." 

To that, I give a joking "Fuck you!" and push him aside. Crap, the food's getting cold! "Bro, eat up!" 

Fulton

Okay, at the gym, I finally made it back to 250 lbs on the bench press! Then, practice was as typical as any other, except this: 

At the end of practice, Kemp held Portman, Bosco, and I over for a while to tell us that Pepsi refused to shell out a contract with Bosco. Bosco looked naturally upset and left our presence, suddenly slamming one of the lockers in anger, which was so un-Bosco-like. 

"What's your problem!?" Polanski goes. 

"Oh, sorry, Polanski, I didn't know it was your locker." Then, I could overhear Bosco talking in a low voice to Polanski about the deal. 

After that, Polanski goes, "Well, don't blame me! My agent is Jerry Maguire!" 

So now I'm in Portman's Porsche as he drives around the Twin Cities. At one point he pulls the car over this somewhat busy highway. He takes off my bandana, then unties it, and reties it to cover my eyes. 

"Bro, I always dreamed of being executed in a Porsche. Where's my cigarette?" 

"No, bro, I got a little surprise for you!" 

"A surprise? Not like last time, I hope." 

"No, it's _better_ than dancing lobsters!" 

"That's not saying much." 

"You just wait and see, Fult. You'll love it!" So I follow along, and, in a while, the car stops again. Then, my door opens and Portman takes me out. He takes off the bandana to let me see what it is. 

"Sanford Miniature Golf?" I go. Sanford Miniature Golf? 

"Yeah! You said you wanted to be a golfer, so I thought I could, you know, 'expand your horizons.'" 

I have mixed feelings about this, but Portman smiles along and says, "Do something that makes you feel like you're going somewhere. That's what I say." 

I smile back at that, and take his offer. 

And that's how we spend the night. Now, mind you, I have terrible aim when it came to hitting pucks with a wide-faced wooden stick and into huge goal nets or old trunks. You can only imagine me hitting golf balls, with clubs that have far smaller faces, into a far tinier hole. Add my uncanny strength, and you can safely bet that a few psycho golf balls will be flying. 

And that's exactly what happened when we came to our first shot, a little pink castle. The first ball hit this 8-year-old boy, but seeing that we were the Bash Brothers, instead of threatening us with a lawsuit, he asks us to sign what was in his hand: The ball we just hit him with! The second ball managed to pierce through this big net as well as a windshield. Immediately, we coolly walk away from the scene. 

Seeing my problem, Portman comes behind me, then wraps his arms over me and holds his hands with mine on the club. I can hear him saying, "Be the pond, bro, be calm like the pond." I close my eyes and let Portman do the dirty work. He moves the club only maybe an inch up, then softly swings it back to hit the ball. I open my eyes and see the spectacle. The ball magically rolls into the castle and close to the hole that was on the other side. Portman and I move to the hole and survey the ball and hole. 

"Bro, I still need your help." I claim through my grin. 

"No problemo." Dean goes into the same position as before, but this time, as he presses against me, I can feel he's getting a little hard. 

"Bro," I whisper to him as I try to contain my smirk, "you picked a bad time for this." 

"Just play along, bro. You're doing great!" He moves the club with me again and gently hits the ball into the hole. Instantly, he raises the club and screams, "Yes!" as he goes into a little dance. I look down and laugh a bit. 

We play the rest of the night, and then, as we make it to the windmill, it dawned on him: 

"What do you think?" He winks with a smile as he tilts his head towards the windmill. 

Knowing what he wants, I say with that same smirk, "Dude, I think you're insane." 

"And I think you need to get laid." 

I look at him, and he gives the goofiest expression I have ever seen. There were people all around us, for goodness sake. "How the hell do you plan to pull this off?" 

Dean then putts the ball into the windmill, but it doesn't come out the other side. 

In his mock monotone, Dean says, "I lost my ball inside the windmill. Could you help me find it?" 

I burst into laughter at that, and my face transforms into a blushing red. I nod in agreement, and I follow Dean inside. 

I can't even start to explain how we did what we did inside that tiny windmill, but it was nothing short of fantastic. Add that to the exciting feeling that we could get caught with our pants down, it was the most orgasmic thing we have ever felt. We could barely maintain our moans to a minimum! It was like a dream come true, to make love with the man you love and will love for the rest of your life! 


End file.
